




<* 



ASTLE/1AN 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


1 






































































ELIZABETH B. GRAHAM. 


“ MARION.” 



3 


A CHILD 

Of theCovenant. 


VIRGINIA CARTER CASTLEMAN. 


( NOV 26 1894 j 


MILWAUKEE, WIS. : 

THE YOUNG CHURCHMAN CO. 
1894. 



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Copyright, 1894. 

THE YOUNG CHURCHMAN CO. 


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MRS. MARY CH1PMAN, 


ONE WORTHY THE NAME OF FRIEND, I LOVINGLY 

DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK. 






























































































































A Child of the Covenant. 


CHAPTER I. 


Thus outwardly and visibly, 

We seal thee for His own; 

And may the brow that wears His cross 
Hereafter share His crown. 

— Bean Alford. 

“ Of such is the Kingdom of God.” 

I N a darkened room in an unpretentious house 
in Harlem, a young mother lay dying. Out- 
side, in the hall, two gentlemen were talking in 
low, earnest tones. 

“Do you think the excitement would be too 
much for her, doctor?” 

It was the younger man who spoke in a slow 
voice, pathetic in the intensity of pain which the 
effort seemed to cause him. 

“No; nothing can harm her now. It might 
delay the end.” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


“ Then you will come with me?” 

Dr. Thornton laid a kindly hand upon the 
young minister’s shoulder, indicative of assent. 

John Martyn opened the door of the sick room 
softly; not so softly, however, but that the listen- 
ing ears of the dying woman heard the sound, 
and her dark blue eyes lost their listless look in 
the eagerness of the gaze she fixed upon her 
husband. 

“It is all right, darling,” he said, understand- 
ing the mute appeal. u Dr. Thornton has con- 
sented.” 

“ Right away?” he asked, bending low to catch 
the faint whisper. u Yes, it shall be done imme- 
diately, as soon as nurse brings her in.” 

Here a white-haired lady, who had been sitting 
motionless by the other side of the bed, arose and 
went into an adjoining room. 

u I am so glad, John,” the faint voice contin- 
ued. u I shall feel happier to leave her now; she 
will grow up to be a comfort to you. Oh, John! 
it is hard to leave you and my baby.” 

The young man’s face grew pale with emotion 
as the plaintive tones ceased. 

“I would give my life for yours, darling! It 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


7 


is hard. Oil ! it is past understanding, that you 
should be taken from me now, and from the 
little one.” 

He rose and walked the floor with tightly 
clasped hands. 

“John!” 

He came to the bedside instantly, for her 
faintest whisper would have reached him, 
absorbed as he was in his great grief. 

“ John, I didn’t mean to make it harder for 
you; I want to tell you that all the happiness I 
ever had was through your love. Think what I 
might have been if you had not taught me, 
helped me to be a Christian. Poor Addie, if she, 
too, could be saved! But your mother will take 
care of our little one; she will teach her. Oh! 
John, (and the breath cpe in quick gasps now) 
you don’t think that my sins will be visited on 
my child? I could not bear that she should 
suffer as I have done.” 

“The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all 
sin, and doubt is swallowed up in the victory of 
faith; darling, you must not talk any more, you 
must save your strength.” 


8 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


“Tell them to come now, please,” she said 
beseechingly. 

He arose and opened the door which his mother 
had passed through. 

“ Come,” he said briefly, passing on to where 
the infant lay in the nurse’s arms. The white 
christening robes hung in spotless folds about 
the tiny form, and the blue eyes were fastened 
upon the young father with a strange, intent 
look, unusual in the very young child. The 
father put on his surplice, and Prayer Book in 
hand, again entered the dimly lighted room. Dr. 
Thornton stood by the window awaiting them ; 
the nurse came in carrying the little one, who, as 
if conscious of the necessity for quiet, uttered no 
cry, but kept its gaze still fastened upon the 
white-robed minister. 

* “ Stand closer, please,” and the grandmother 

motioned to the nurse to bring the child nearer 
that the mother might see her baby more clearly 
in the dim light. 

All through the beautiful baptismal service, 
the dark eyes of the mother were riveted upon the 
child, and no sound but the minister’s voice broke 
the stillness. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


“Marion,” the man’s voice trembled as that 
beloved name, the name of the mother, came 
from his lips, “ Marion, c I baptize thee in the 
name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the 
Holy Ghost. We do sign her with the sign of 
the cross in token that hereafter she shall not be 
ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified.’ ” 
The words rang out more clearly now, 
as the father pledged for the faith of his 
child. The curtain had been partially drawn up 
to admit the evening light, and the sun break- 
ing for a moment through the clouded sky, 
illumined the quiet room with its warm spring 
rays. As the last words of the service ended, the 
mother’s eyes closed as if in prayer, the pale face 
grew paler yet, and the end drew near. It seemed 
as if the tired spirit had but waited for the wit- 
nessing of that covenant seal. Dr. Thornton 
motioned the nurse aside, and stood watching the 
ebbing of that young life away. Only one month 
a mother — long enough to bear the pain and not 
know the joy of motherhood ! The young hus- 
band knelt beside the bed and clasped one of the 
thin white hands in his own as if to stay the 
oncoming death-angel. The dark curls lay tan- 


10 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


gled upon the pillow, and the long lashes swept 
the pale cheeks ; one moment the beautiful eyes 
opened and rested on the watching face — “John 
— Marion — God loves you,” and the spirit returned 
to God who gave it. 

Some three years later, Dr. Thornton, riding 
on the elevated railway down to the business part 
of the city, saw a clergyman get on at one of the 
stations, and take a seat opposite. 

u Why, Martyn, I hardly knew you ! It’s been 
a long time since we met, and living in the same 
city, too. Life is such a rush now-a-days a man 
can scarcely have a quiet moment to seek out old 
friends. I’ve thought of you often since you left 
us ; the little mission has grown rapidly, but we 
miss your guiding hand and earnest heart.” 

u Thank you, doctor,” was the quiet reply. “I 
haven’t been back to the old home for some 
months; somehow, a city parson finds his hands- 
full with parish guilds, parish houses, Sunday 
schools and all the other duties of a large church, 
I, too, miss the old friends^ the cordial hand- 
shakes, and the informal visits of those days of 
my mission work,” and Mr. Martyn’s eyes sad- 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


11 


dened as his thoughts went back to the first year 
of his married life in Harlem suburbs. All this 
time Dr. Thornton’s keen glance had been upon 
his friend’s face, noting the change that had come 
upon the buoyant nature, the vigorous frame, of 
four years back. 

“Martyn, you are working too hard; aren’t you 
going to take a rest this summer? Go to the 
mountains or the seaside for a month or so, any- 
where out of this crowded city. There are times 
in every man’s life when a change of air and sur- 
roundings is imperative.” 

“ It seems to me that you don’t follow your 
own prescriptions, doctor; I never hear of your 
taking a rest,” replied Mr. Martyn, smiling for 
the first time in the interview. 

“I do, though; every now and then I run off to 
the country and spend a day or two; but mine is 
a different case. Seriously, my friend, I can’t 
bear to see you so run down.” 

“ I intend to take my little girl up the Hudson 
tomorrow to spend the summer months with her 
grandmother, at the old homestead; and perhaps 
I’ll stay a week or so, too, to recuperate. This 
hot weather pulls a man down terribly; but there 


12 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


is so nfuch to be clone, I cannot leave for long.” 

“Your congregation can certainly spare you, 
for most of them will be away themselves the 
greater part of the summer.” 

“ 1 The poor you have always with you,’ ” was 
the gentle reply. 

“Ah! I see, up to your old ways still, going 
about among all those dark, fever-laden tenement 
houses, enough to ruin a constitution like yours. 
But good-bye, I must get out here. I would like 
to see you oftener.” 

“ CanT you dine with me at one? early hours 
on account of my little housekeeper, you know.” 

“ If I can get back in time, I will; I want to 
see my godchild and have another chat with you.” 

“I shall be delighted to have you. Well 
expect you, Marion and I. Good-bye, till we 
meet again.” 

After the doctor’s departure, the Rev. John 
Martyn sat with his paper before him, but he did 
not read. His clear, gray eyes looked musingly 
out upon the tops of the houses as the train 
rushed on its way. 

“ He will be a good friend to her when I am 
gone. Poor little girl, motherless, and soon to 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


13 


be fatherless. I feel that I cannot hold out much 
longer. So much unfinished work, so many hun- 
gry souls, and so little physical strength. I 
must rouse all my energies for the sake of my 
work, and for my child’s sake . 11 

Mechanically he transacted the business which 
had called him down town, and returned home- 
ward some two hours later. His steps quickened 
as he neared his home, and a smile lighted up his 
face as he heard the patter of little feet within 
the hall, and a child’s merry voice calling to him. 

“ Sure, sir, she saw you at the window up- 
stairs, and nothing would do but I must bring 
her down to open the door for you,” was Bridget’s 
comment, as the father entered. 

“ My papa!” cried the gleeful voice, and in an 
instant the little lass was seated upon her father’s 
shoulder and on the way to the study on the sec- 
ond floor. A handsomely furnished parlor and 
suite of rooms were down stairs; but here, the 
master’s simplicity of taste showed itself. The 
walls lined with well-filled bookcases, a few 
engravings, pictures of college friends and pro- 
fessors, a comfortable sofa, an escritoire, a center 
table, and some easy chairs, made up the furnish- 


14 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


ings of this favorite room. Folding doors sep- 
arated the study and bed-room, and just beyond 
was the nursery. 

“ See pitty wowers, papa! the lady dave ’em to 
me; she told B widget to put ’em in wawerfor me 
dis morning.” 

“Very pretty, darling.” 

The curly head rested on his shoulder now, but 
only for a moment; presently a mischievous look 
came into the blue eyes, as Marion rubbed her 
tiny face against her father’s. Hers was a beau- 
tiful face, the dark curls framing its infant fair- 
ness, the rosy mouth dimpled in smiles; in repose, 
the child looked like one of Raphael’s cherubs. 
Now, it was a very human baby-face that looked 
up into the protecting one above it. 

“Papa bwing Marion som’fin’P” she asked, 
diving into the nearest pocket. 

“What did papa bring you? Look here,” 
drawing out a little paner bag. 

“ Choc’late dw T ops,” and the little maiden hast- 
ened to slide down to the floor with her treasures. 

“ Not so fast, Dot, you haven’t kissed your 
papa for them. Won’t you love me? ” 

Two dimpled arms went around his neck (one 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


15 


hand still holding fast the candy bag), and the 
baby lips were pressed close to his in tender caress. 

“ There, pet, you may eat your chocolates now.” 

u One for papa , 11 said the little voice, “one for 
B widget,” — “ and one for the dear doctor when he 
comes,” put in her father, sinking down intc^ the 
big arm-chair. u Des, one for the doctor,” con- 
tinued the baby, “and one, free, six, for Mawun,” 
she concluded, looking up roguishly into her 
father’s face. 

Now that the excitement of his home-coming 
was passed, the old pallor returned to his face, 
and unconsciously one hand was pressed upon his 
aching head. 

Instinctively the little one felt the change. 
“ Papa’s tick,” she said softly, gathering up the 
candy and putting it back into the bag; then she 
approached the chair and put a timid hand upon 
his arm, “ Dod loves ’oo, papa.” 

The tears filled the father’s eyes; he had him- 
self taught the child to say over and over again 
those last words of the young mother, but their 
full meaning dawned upon him more clearly now 
than it had ever before. 

“ God bless you, Marion, you are papa’s com- 


16 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


fort. Yes, God loves us both,” and he folded her 
in a close embrace. 

“ I fear he cannot live long. How sad it seems, 
and a strange Providence, that one of the most 
useful as well as the most gifted of our young 
clergy should be taken in his prime. I’m glad I 
persuaded him to go away; there is a possible 
chance that he may recover. That beautiful 
child! I can see that she is the most powerful 
lever to keep him in this world. Overworked 
brain, a tired-out mind and body; these seem the 
usual results of our present theological training. 
There’s a grave defect somewhere, and it is a dis- 
astrous outlook for the Church. It was probably 
a mistake for so young a man to take a large city 
church; too heavy responsibility; but I couldn’t 
blame him for leaving us when his home was all 
broken up; he thought the hard work would keep 
him from grief, I suppose. Unusual, too, for a 
man to grieve as he has done. Well, he’s one 
among a thousand; the good he’s done, too, in 
these four years, ’t would be hard to tell.” 

Thus mused Dr. Thornton on his return to 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


17 


Harlem Heights, after dining with the Rev. John 
Marty n of New York City. 

The next day found Mr. Martyn, little Marion, 
and Bridget, the nurse, on the steamer Albany, 
going up the Hudson River. It was a lovely 
day in the latter part of June, a recent rain had 
cooled the air and made the country on either 
shore beautiful in its freshness. 

The father, lying back in one of the luxurious 
chairs by the open window of the saloon, watched 
the little one at play upon the deck, guarded by 
the faithful Bridget. Above them in the summer 
sky floated fleecy clouds, their shadowy reflections 
softening the brightness of the waters through 
which the steamer glided rapidly. 

A quaint, lovely town is Newburg-on-the-Hud- 
son, with its busy street along the river side, from 
which the one street car line runs up the steep 
hill to the villas on its summit. Ivy-covered 
churches on the corners of the shady street, aris- 
tocratic-looking houses set back in the midst of 
green lawns and flowering shrubbery, give a 
refined atmosphere to the place; withal it has a 
dreamy look, as if here, too, might be found a 
“ Sleepy Hollow, v where life could be softly 


18 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


dreamed away. Across the river is another town 
of about equal size, nestled upon the hillside, and 
far down as the eye can reach, winds the happy 
river, with its smooth bays and swift-flowing 
shallows. Travellers often stop at Newburg to 
visit the chief attraction of the place — Wash- 
ington’s headquarters — where, in a low, square 
house, set in the middle of well-kept grounds, the 
great general for some time made his home. 

In one of the most old-fashioned of the aristo- 
cratic houses lived John Martyn’s mother. It 
was the old homestead, unchanged since the days 
of his boyhood, to which he was now bringing 
his motherless girl. Mrs. Martyn, in her soft, 
black silk dress, the white muslin cap set daintily 
upon her smooth, white hair, stood at the open 
door. 

u Welcome, John, welcome to home and rest. 
Ah, darling, kiss grandmother again. How are 
you, Bridget? Come in all of you.” 

The quiet, soothing tones were just the anti- 
dote for weariness, and the tired man felt he was 
indeed home again. He put one arm around his 
mother’s tall, trim figure, and together they 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


19 


entered the sitting-room, the nurse and child fol- 
lowing. 

In an upper room in this same house there 
lived, day after day, apart from the outer world 
and ignorant of its doings, the one only daughter. 
A bright child, a brilliant young girl just leaving 
school, her mind had suddenly given way. The 
physicians said it was over-study when the body 
was not strong enough to bear the strain. All 
remedies were tried in vain, and at last the case 
was pronounced hopeless. The mother took her 
daughter home, and the untiring devotion and 
love she gave this idolized child made the blighted 
life in some sense a happy one. 

The girl, now grown to maturer age, would 
never be mature in mind. Her books, piano, and 
every comfort, even luxury, were hers. Sometimes 
snatches of wild songs were heard within those 
quiet walls, or gay tunes would be played by the 
fingers that had not forgotten their former skill, 
or there would be recitations of poems, sometimes 
sad, sometimes merry, but always pathetic in their 
in coherency. 

Except for the patient mother and one faithful 
attendant, no one ever entered those two rooms 


20 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


where that strange life had been led for many 
weary years. 

It was this which had prevented the mother’s 
staying with her son after his wife’s death; and 
John would not be separated from his child, so, 
save for a few short visits exchanged, the mother 
and son had seen very little of each other during 
the past four years. With aching heart she 
noticed the slow step, the tired look in the frank, 
grave eyes that used to be tilled with a merry 
light. Yes, he had come home to die, and he 
knew it, though others did not. 

All day long he roamed about the old town, or 
wandered in the garden among the flowers, but 
always the dark-haired child was by his side, her 
tiny hand clasped in his and her merry prattle 
soothing him as nothing else could do. 

He was not afraid of death: lie had stood too 
often by the bedside of the dying. The prayers, 
the words of comfort he had spoken to others 
returned to him now fraught with deeper mean- 
ing. No, God had not forsaken him; it was only 
for the child he feared. Left alone, as she must 
one day be, would her feet stray from the path of 
peace? 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


21 


“ Father,” he prayed, u Thou art her father, 
too. She is Thine; bring her at last to Thine 
eternal home.” 

Little Marion had no fears of the unknown 
future; and in those long summer days she was 
indeed the “light of the house.” 

Every day some bright child-speech brought 
smiles to the lips of those older ones, who tried 
to hide all cares from sight of those wondering 
baby eyes, that, in spite of their merriment, seemed 
always to be intently watching the father’s face, 
as though they would reflect his every thought. 

He stayed on through the summer; indeed, he 
was not able to return, and his congregation gave 
him leave of absence “until he should be well 
again.” 

“Well again !” yes, there was one day when 
he was indeed “well,” but in his Father’s home; 
not in the noisy city, or with multitudes hanging 
upon his eloquent words, would he ever be “ well 
again.” Heart trouble and over-worked brain, 
the physician said, caused his death. 

Among his papers was a packet directed to his 
mother; it had been written some months pre- 
vious and contained minute directions about the 


22 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


care of his child. The interest of his life-insur- 
ance — five thousand dollars, — was to be used for 
her support and education; he knew his mother’s 
slender income was already taxed to its utmost, 
but her love was limitless, he also knew. To 
Bridget he left the interest of one thousand 
dollars, provided she would stay with Marion until 
the latter was ten years old; at the end of that 
time the woman was at liberty to draw the prin- 
cipal if she wished. 

This was all the means at his disposal, except 
his books and some personal property which were 
intrusted to his mother’s care, a single locket, a 
daguerreotype, and the wedding ring being reserved 
for “ his little girl.” 

One other request he made — that Marion 
should remain under his mother’s care so long as 
the latter lived. 

And little Marion was left an orphan at three- 
and-a-half years of age. 


CHAPTER 1 1. 


Alone in the world, what can be its fate ? 

The Fatherless are the care of God. 

— Lord Lytton . 

B WIDGET, where is my papa ?” 

It was the morning after the funeral. 
The little girl had been kept in ignorance of the 
last sad rites, lest they might too greatly excite 
her mind with a sense of bereavement which she 
could not understand ; so Bridget had taken her 
to a neighbor’s for the day, answering the child’s 
questions as best she could, by telling her that her 
papa had gone away for a little while. 

But now, on the third day, Marion’s first words 
upon waking were the repetition of the question 
Bridget dreaded to hear. 

The little white-robed figure sitting upright 
on the tiny cot, the pleading blue eyes, the quiver- 
ing baby lips, were more than the faithful nurse 
could stand. Gathering Marion in her arms, she 


24 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


rocked backwards and forwards in speechless 
grief — grief for the master from whom she had 
never received aught but kindness. The tears 
flowed freely, until presently, looking at the child, 
she saw large drops in the blue eyes, and felt sobs 
shaking the little frame. 

u There, darling, we won’t cry any more ; and 
Bridget will tell you something. Papa was sick, 
pet, and he’s gone away to heaven to get well 
again.” 

“Will Dod make papa well again, and bring 
him back to Mawion ?” 

“How can I iver tell the choild?” said the 
woman under her breath. “ Sure, and yer father’ll 
never be sick any more, and some day he’ll send 
for his pet to come to him.” 

“ Des,” answered Marion, with a smile of 
child-like faith, “ papa'll turn for me, may be he’ll 
turn to-mower,” 

And as the days passed into weeks it was 
“ to-morrow ” still, always the same thought that 
the baby lips uttered in connection with her 
father’s absence — “Papa’s turnin’ home to-mower.” 

Gradually, as new impressions were planted 
upon the child-mind, as it opened more and more 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


25 


to the reception of ideas, her father become 
a memory to her, and this memory, though 
it necessarily faded as the years went on, never 
quite passed into oblivion; it could always be 
recalled by an effort of the will. 

The grandmother found her hands full, with 
the care of John’s child, and that other child who 
could never cease to be first in all her thoughts. 
It seemed a pity, the world said, that the one of 
her children who could have best aided her 
declining years, should have been taken, and the 
other left; the one, a bright star among the sons 
of men ; the other, a woman whose blighted life 
was named but with a sigh of pity, or a look of 
fear. Yet the mother shared not the world’s ver- 
dict; for her, that solitary life absorbed all other 
interest in its own. 

John’s marriage, she had never approved. It 
was a linking with unbelievers, and would bring 
no good, she had said ; for that other Marion 
was one who had stood apart from her family, in 
that she had not shared their infidelity. Beauti- 
ful had been her faith, when once she had taken 
her stand as “a member of Christ;” and it was 
John who had first found the struggling soul, 


26 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


and helped it to the light. Of this the mother 
knew but little, for she, like her son, was a per- 
son of few words, but of unswerving devotion to 
duty, wherever it might call her ; it was duty 
that called her to that dying bedside, ’twas duty 
now that called her to consider this child her 
own. 

Her stern nature could but soften toward the 
lovely child; but she tolerated Bridget solely on 
John’s account, because of her reverence for his 
dying request. And Bridget, divided between 
her love for Marion, and her fear of Mrs. Mar- 
tyn's displeasure, was constantly crossing herself 
at sight of that stern countenance, and of those 
keen eyes that were upon her at every turn. 

Morning and evening, the grandmother came 
to the nursery door, and at her knee the dark- 
haired child lisped her prayers, and always after- 
wards clasped her dimpled arms around the grand- 
mothers’s neck, with a good-morning or good- 
night kiss, as the case might be. As yet she had 
not learned the necessity for repression of affec- 
tion; and hers was a nature lovable, yet with a 
certain mixture of playful alertness which the 
grandmother sometimes mistook for wilfulness. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


27 


But most of all she dreaded the grave, question- 
ing humor that often followed her gayer moods. 

“Drandma, does Dod love ’oo?” Marion asked 
one day, coming up to that lady’s side, after an 
unusual frolic with the gray kitten in the nursery. 

a I trust so, Marion,” was the reply. 

Marion’s questioning eyes became wistful in 
their intense gaze. 

“Drandma, won’t you smile at me and kitty, 
like Dod does up in heaven?” and then she was 
off again, as merry as ever in her play, leaving 
the grandmother puzzling over the strange words 
and quaint ways of John’s child, whom she loved 
more than she dared show, for fear it would wean 
her from that other love which needed even 
greater sacrifices than of old. 

Perhaps the child would have been very lonely 
without Bridget to w T alk or play with her, out in 
the bright sunshine when the weather was good, 
or amuse her in-doors when it stormed; but per- 
haps, too, it might have been better, had Bridget 
not been there to take a place in Marion’s heart 
that the grandmother would otherwise have filled, 
had the child been more dependent upon her. 

On the same street was the Rectory, where a 


28 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


happy family gathered within the home-like 
walls; next to them was the Doctor’s residence; 
and on the corner, the stone church, with its ivy 
hangings. At both houses Marion was a welcome 
visitor. There was a companionable disposition 
about the child which made her presence agree- 
able to both children and grown people. 

No more gleeful laugh than hers rang out 
upon the lawns where the little ones played under 
the trees; yet she had been known to sit for an 
hour quietly listening to the conversation of older 
people, her bright eyes looking at the speaker as 
if she understood the meaning of his words; or 
again, she would chatter by the hour when with 
Bridget or some one she knew well. 

“A remarkable child she is,” said Mrs. Wilton 
to her husband one day, “such a sweet baby face, 
and such cunning ways, yet so old-fashioned at 
times.” 

“We must have her with the children as often 
as possible; her father was a shining light among 
the clergy. He is terribly missed from the ranks,” 
and the Rev. Paul Wilton looked out of the par- 
lor window on the group outside. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


29 


“She doesn’t look much like her father, does 
she?” 

“Not at all, except for her chestnut curls and 
white forehead. As well as I remember, she re- 
sembles the mother whom I saw but once, shortly 
after the marriage. A very fair face hers was, 
and eyes just like the child’s. Not a doll-face by 
any means, rather the reverse; character in every 
line.” 

It was a curious thing that the man who was 
recalling the picture of Marion’s mother should 
himself be one of those persons who, while they 
harp much upon “force of character,” possess a 
limited supply of that desirable quality. 

A passably handsome face, almost expression- 
less in repose, but occasionally lighted by enthu- 
siasm, was the Rev. Paul Wilton’s. He was a 
man learned in the letter of the law, rigid in his 
observance of the same, yet lacking the spiritual 
fire which might have rendered his life beautiful, 
his ministry a harvesting of souls. Yet he had a 
large church, a wealthy and aristocratic congre- 
gation who were pleased with his elegantly writ- 
ten, well-delivered sermons; he, too, was content, 
though not lacking in ambition for the future. 


30 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


Marion was now five years old, a large, finely 
proportioned child, but not rosy cheeked like the 
rector’s sturdy boys; hers was a clear white skin 
with only a shadow of coloring to relieve its pale- 
ness; all the color of her face seemed concentrated 
in her eyes. 

One afternoon Bridget took her little charge 
to their favorite place in Newberg, the grounds 
around the old house where Washington had his 
headquarters, which place commanded a fine view 
of the river and the surrounding hills. 

The other children, Marion's playmates, were 
also there; Jessica Lynn, the Doctor’s little daugh- 
ter; and Frank and Claude Wilton, and their baby 
sister, Maud. 

They were a merry party; Jessica, Marion and 
Claude were all five years old; Frank was six; 
while the little baby was only eleven months old. 

They had quite a picnic. Bridget had brought 
some crackers, and at a store she let Marion buy 
some candy, a rare treat now, since grandma had 
said very sternly one day: 

“Candy is not good for children, it ruins their 
digestion, Bridget.” 

“Yes’m,” said Bridget, meekly, but inwardly 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


31 


she resolved to spend a few of her own spare pen- 
nies for the child’s delight, at the risk of future 
digestion. 

Poor Bridget was not wise, as we all know, 
but the grandmother’s theory, though good, was 
rather hard practice for a little girl of five. And 
Marion seldom asked for “choc’lates” now-a-days; 
that one repulse had been enough. 

The Wilton children had bananas; so Bridget 
spread a cloth upon the grass — it was late in May 
— and they had a feast then and there; even baby 
Maud enjoyed it in the shape of a harmless crack- 
er. The old man who had charge of the place 
came out to watch them and listen to the merry 
prattle. It was one of Marion’s gay moods, and 
she and Frank found it impossible to keep from 
frolicking together on the grass. 

“See that bird, Frank, see!” cried the little 
maiden ; and Frank in his endeavor to §ee over the 
top of his head, almost turned a somersault over 
Claude who was trying to “see the bird,” too. 
They climbed on the bench beside the old man, 
who told them about the tin cup that the soldiers 
were used to drink out of “from that very spring.” 
They gathered buttercups by handfuls; and 


32 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


watched the sail-boats on the river below the hill; 
and at last went home together, quite ready for 
their bread -and-milk supper. 

Marion had learned to read by this time, and 
her grandmother noted with almost more pain 
than pleasure, the child’s love for books. It was 
a family trait, she said to herself; and from that 
hour, she resolved that as far as possible she would 
shield this child from the evil that had come to 
the other, through an unequal development of 
physical and mental powers. There are few chil- 
dren with whom this precaution is necessary; the 
majority need to be stimulated, rather than kept 
back in their brain work; but the exception in 
some startling cases proves the rule. 

Therefore Marion was kept in the open air as 
much as possible, and was not to go to school for 
three years; so far, this treatment had been bene- 
ficial, and the child was unusually healthy and 
free from the nervous irritability to which deli- 
cate children are so often subject In spite of 
precaution, however, she spent every spare moment 
indoors, in looking over the picture books, and 
spelling out words to herself, when no one was by 
to tell her. She knew many nursery rhymes from 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


83 


her Mother Goose book, and often repeated them 
to the gray kitten, or to her dolls. 

Susie, the rag doll, who went to bed with 
Marion every night, was her chief confidant, and 
her dearest playmate, not even Jessica excepted. 

Presently Marion was kneeling by her grand- 
mother’s knee, saying her evening pra}^er, the 
prayer that goes up nightly from so many hearts, 
old as well as young, the world over : 

“Now I lay me down to sleep, 

1 pray the Lord my soul to keep, 

If I should die before I wake, 

I pray the Lord my soul to take. ,, 

Many and many a time in her after life that 
prayer returned to Marion’s thoughts, when the 
darkness brought no such dreamless slumber as 
blessed the little one that night. 

And the years were speeding on, farther and 
farther from that death-bed where the infant 
life had begun its long journey through the world. 

Five years later occurred another parting scene. 

U I can hardly make up me moind to leave the 
child; but ’tis the grandmother is wishin’ it, and 
I suppose the toime has come for us to part.” 

“Oh, Bridget ! must you go ? I will beg 


34 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


grandmother to let you stay with me always. 
Bridget, stay, please,” and Marion’s arms were 
thrown around her faithful friend in a tight 
embrace. 

“Sure, an" if I could, I would, me pet, but 
what with your grandmother advisin’ of me to 
go, and me own owld mother a writin’ for me to 
come and see her before she dies, I think me 
mind’s about made up to leave you for a toime. 
The Blessed Virgin knows I’d stay wid ye till me 
life’s end, if I could do it wid the approval of me 
conscience. Niver moind, me pet, I’ll come and 
see you often, when I can ; an’ promise me, dar- 
lint, if ever you’re in need of help, come to your 
owld Bridget.” 

U I promise, Bridget,” replied the child, smil- 
ing through her tears, “and I’ll write to you 
often, but I’ll miss you more than I can tell.” 


CHAPTER III. 


By cool Siloam’s shady rill 
How fair the lily grows, 

How sweet the breath beneath the hill 
Of Sharon’s dewy rose. 

Lo ! such the child, whose early feet 
The paths of peace have trod, 

Whose secret heart with influence sweet, 

Is upward drawn to God. 

— Bishop Heher. 

M ARION would have missed Bridget's de- 
voted care more than she did, but for 
her school-life ; for two years past she had 
attended a private school in Newberg, where she 
had won the love of her teacher, and had enjoyed 
the companionship of children of her own age. 
Her grandmother, too, had lately shown an un- 
usual tenderness in her manner to the child, a 
yearning for the love which she had, perhaps, not 


36 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


fully valued in years gone by, and the need of 
which she felt more keenly as she saw Marion 
becoming absorbed in outside interests of her 
own. Perhaps, too, she felt that the years were 
fast bringing to a close her own life, and that 
soon the child would have to do without her 
guiding hand. Mrs. Martyn had aged much 
during the last five years; the strain upon her 
physical powers, the anxiety for those who were 
dependent upon her, especially that one who still 
required unremitting care, had told heavily upon 
her. The tall, straight figure was bent now; the 
black eyes had lost something of their fire; and 
her step had become feeble instead of the elastic 
tread of a few years back. In all the time since 
Marion’s coming into the house, the child had 
been but once within those dreaded rooms up- 
stairs; once, when a tiny girl, she had escaped 
Bridget’s vigilance, and had wandered down the 
long passage to where the door stood ajar. Creep- 
ing into the room with timid steps, the little one 
encountered the wild gaze of the inmate fixed 
upon her. Startled by its fierce intensity, the 
child shrank back, and hid her face in the folds 
of her grandmother’s dress. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


37 


“Pretty baby,” began the aunt, in a coaxing 
tone, “where did she come from? Come sit on 
my knee, and I’ll sing to thee,” the voice con- 
tinued. 

But Marion would not be coaxed, and suddenly 
the voice changed to a shrill key : 

“Take her out, she’s a little vixen, take her 
out, I say!” 

And Marion was glad enough to be led back 
to the nursery; but she never forgot the sight of 
the wasted face with its bright hectic flush, and 
the glitter of those wild black eyes. After that, 
Bridget had no trouble in keeping her from that 
part of the house. As she grew older, she lost 
something of the terror inspired by that one 
visit ; and sometimes, playing out in the free air 
and joyous sunshine, her tender heart would be 
filled with pity for the poor caged woman, whose 
face was now and then seen at the side window 
that opened on the lawn. Instinctively the child 
came to understand why her grandmother was so 
often sad and stern, with the weight of that 
sorrow upon her. 

“Marion,” said her grandmother one after- 


38 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


noon, as the little girl came in from school, “I 
have something to tell you.” 

Marion came up to Mrs. Martyn’s side imme- 
diately. She was warmly dressed, for it was 
January, and the ground was white with snow; 
the dark blue cloak with its fur collar brought 
out the fairness of her skin; and the fur cap 
could not confine the curls that fell about the 
well-shaped ears. The exercise of walking in the 
frosty air had brought an unusual color to her 
face. 

“Child, you are very like your mother !” said 
Mrs. Martyn, noticing Marion’s beauty for the 
first time in many months, nay, years; she was 
generally reticent upon such matters. 

“Am I not like my father at all P” the girl 
asked wistfully, laying aside her cloak and cap, 
and pushing back the mass of hair from her fore- 
head with a gesture peculiar to herself. 

“Not in looks, but in ways, maybe,” was the 
reply, in a softer tone. 

That same gesture of the hand recalled John 
to his mother’s mind with strange force. 

“You inherit your father’s disposition, I 
think.” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


39 


“I am so glad !” murmured Marion, trying to 
recall, as she so often did, the memory of her 
father, the memory which had well-nigh passed 
into a dream, but a vivid dream, still. She seated 
herself on a low chair beside her grandmother’s 
side, and gazed steadily at the bright coal fire 
that burned in the open grate. It was a cozy 
sitting-room of which they were the occupants, 
and so thought the Maltese cat that purred 
beside them, a silver ball upon the red rug. 

“Marion, you know your mother had a twin 
sister, do you not ?” 

“Yon told me that a long while ago, grand- 
mother, three years ago, I think it was, 1 ’ said the 
girl, thoughtfully. 

“You may have thought it strange that you 
have never seen her all these years, that she has 
taken so little interest in your mother’s child. 
You are old enough now to understand what I 
am about to tell you. Shortly after your father’s 
death I received a letter from your aunt, living 
at the home-place in Massachusetts with her 
father, asking that you might come to live with 
her, or at least spend part of every year there. 
This request I refused, because your father’s 


40 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


dying wish was for you to stay here as long as I 
live; but, my child, I feel that I am not many 
years longer for this world, and I want to see you 
provided with a home, — God knows how suitable it 
may be.'’ 

“Why did not my father wish me to live with 
my aunt, grandma?” 

The fearless eyes looked question ingly into 
the grandmother’s face. 

“Child, you are too young yet to understand 
all the reasons; but there were difficulties your 
father foresaw. Your mother was a stranger to 
her own family after her marriage; there were 
differences of taste, and, sadder still, of religious 
views. I may say truthfully, Marion, that with 
the exception of your mother, none of her family 
had any religious belief whatever. You see now 
why your father wished you to be brought up 
under my care among Christian people.” 

Marion hardly understood, but she knew that 
whatever happened, her father’s wish was her 
own, she had never lost the child-like confidence 
in “papa says so:” but she had also recollections 
of Sunday afternoons spent indoors learning the 
catechism, or at Sunday school repeating it; she 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


41 


remembered that Mr. Wilton rarely met her that 
he did not question her on the Commandments, 
ending with ‘‘Quite right, my child, you do your 
grandmother credit . 71 Marion never felt at ease 
beneath the cool gaze of the rector’s pale brown 
eyes, nor liked the familiar pat upon her cheek 
at parting. In two qualities she resembled her 
grandmother; truthfulness and reserve; the latter 
had been noticeable only lately, for the impulsive 
baby nature had gradually changed into a shy 
thoughtfulness beyond her years. Yet at inter- 
vals, the buoyant spirit broke forth from the 
reserve thrown around it by the association with 
one used to rigid self-control. 

“How old are you, child ? My memory fails 
me often now . 77 

“Eleven in March, grandma. The twenty- 
first of March , 77 she added. 

“A stormy month for your birthday. How 
well I remember the wind whistling down the 
chimney that morning. Well, as I started to tell 
you just now, your Aunt Adelaide was naturally 
offended at my refusal to send you to her, and 
from that time I have never heard a word from 
her until to-day . 77 


42 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


Marion started, and laid her hand upon the 
arm-chair in which Mrs. Martyn sat. 

“This morning I received a second letter, in 
which your aunt reproaches me for having kept 
you in ignorance of your mother’s family. She 
speaks of her devotion to her twin sister, and the 
sorrow which their separation caused her. At 
the close, she says that she expects soon to be in 
New York, and if I will re-eonsider the offer 
made in her former letter, she will take you and 
care for you as her own child.” 

“I will not leave yon, grandma !” 

“As long as 1 live you shall stay with me; but 
Marion, our means are limited, and the time may 
come when you will have no other home to go to. 
I have therefore invited your aunt to come on 
here from New York to see you, that you may 
not grow up a stranger to your nearest kindred 
after I am gone.” 

The thought of losing her grandmother had 
never occurred to the child, and, child-like, she 
could not grasp the full meaning of such a loss; 
but something in the aged woman’s tone touched 
her sympathetic heart, and tears filled her eyes. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


43 


“Grandmother, do not leave me; what will be- 
come of us, of Aunt Olivia and me?” 

Olivia’s name made the patient mother’s brow 
contract with pain. “There, child, I must go to 
her. Do not worry, the Lord will provide,” she 
answered, rising to touch the bell. “We will take 
tea in here this evening, Norah,” she said, as the 
maid appeared at the door. 

“Yes, ma’am,” and Norah went for the tea- 
tray. 

Marion, left to herself and to the bewilder- 
ment of thinking over her grandmother’s words, 
found relief in petting the gray cat that had 
grown up with her from their frolicsome infancy 
in the old nursery days, but was now become a 
sedate creature, accepting the child’s caresses 
with dignified approval. 

Soon Norah returned to prepare the small 
round table for tea; the dainty centre piece was 
laid, and the old-fashioned china set, which 
Marion loved to see, was brought forth; also the 
silver urn. When the rose-colored lamp was 
lighted, it was as pleasant a room as one could 
wish on a cold evening in January. 

Presently, Mrs. Marty n returned, and the two 


44 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


sat down to their tea, which was for them both a 
light repast, Marion having not yet outgrown 
the bread-and-milk suppers of nursery days. 
After the clearing away of the table, the girl 
brought out her books, and for an hour, quiet 
reigned in the room, broken only by the clicking 
of Mrs. Martyn’s knitting-needles; then, lessons 
being learned for the next day, Marion drew her 
low chair beside her grandmother, and, as was 
her wont, read aloud from one of her favorite 
story books. 

To-night it was one of the “Dotty Dimple” 
books; the set had been a Christmas present from 
Dr. Thornton who always remembered his pet 
god-child at such times. Nearly every summer 
since her father's death, the kind-hearted man 
had taken a day from his business to make a 
visit to Newburg. 

“It rested him,” he said, “the trip up the 
river, and the sight of her bright face,” but in 
his heart there was a deeper motive, the welfare 
of John Martyn’s child, in whom he felt a fatherly 
interest. Indeed, he had often said he would 
like to adopt her, having no children of his own 
to brighten the home of his advancing years. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


45 


Dr. Lynn, Jessica’s father, had been a college 
mate of his, too; and that gave additional interest 
to these yearly visits. 

The orphan child could not have found a 
more faithful guardian than Dr. Thornton had 
proved himself to be; and Marion loved him as 
she had never loved anyone since her father’s 
death. 

When the clock struck nine, the “Dotty Dim- 
ple” book was put away, and the old Bible took 
its place; after the short family prayer was over, 
the grandmother and the child went up stairs 
together. So ended the day in its usual manner, 
the monotony of the quiet evening being rarely 
broken save for an occasional visit from some 
neighbor; the most frequent of these visitors, 
and perhaps the most welcome, being Jessica and 
her father from next door. Marion and Jessica 
were as devoted friends as they had been in baby 
days; together they had started to school, and 
had learned their lessons from the same books 
many a time, their fat little fingers wearing out 
the pages as they toiled up the road of learning. 
Now they were studying “Peter Parley’s History,” 


46 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


and working in fractions; besides which, they 
played duets together, both being good musicians 
for their age. 

In the summer time they worked in their 
flower beds with great zeal, for had they not an 
object to make the flowers bloom their brightest ? 

It had been for some time Marion’s special 
work to keep the vase on the sitting-room table 
tilled with flowers; one day it happened that she 
was bringing in a bouquet of nasturtiums, when, 
looking up towards the window of Olivia’s room, 
she saw the wan face with its wild eyes fixed on 
her. A certain wistfulness in' their gaze appealed 
to the child’s heart, and, hesitating but a moment, 
she turned from the sitting-room and running 
lightly upstairs, entered for the second time her 
aunt’s room; all fear was lost in pity for the 
sufferer, and holding out the flowers, Marion 
said gently: 

“They are for you, auntie, will you have 
them?” 

Olivia came forward eagerly and took the 
proffered gift; then seating herself by the table, 
began caressing the flowers and talking to them 
in an undertone. She was in her mildest mood 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


47 


that afternoon, and seemed as pleased as a little 
child with the bright flowers Marion had brought. 
The latter slipped out of the room unnoticed, 
but happy in the thought of having given pleas- 
ure to her aunt; from that day, she kept her 
choicest bouquets for the invalid; from that day, 
too, she lost her childish fear of her aunt’s room. 
And Jessica shared her flowers with Marion for 
this purpose, which they kent secret from all but 
the grandmother, to whom it was an additional 
tie between the old love and the new. 

So the little maidens worked, and played, and 
studied together in those sunny childhood days; 
in after years they looked back upon them with 
somewhat of the impression given, when the eye 
rests upon patches of calm blue in a storm-laden 
sky. 

The Wilton children were still their play- 
mates, and often the group of five were to be 
seen playing on one or another of the smooth 
green lawns in front of the respective houses, or 
rolling hoops along the quiet streets. 

The time was fast coming, however, when 
the boys would grow beyond these effeminate 
games, and substitute for them more vigorous 


48 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


sports; but even base ball could not in later days 
have greater charms than the memory of the 
blue eyes and the brown, that smiled so merrily 
upon them in those early, happy times. 


CHAPTER IY. 


The despoilers of all that beautifies and hallows life 
had desecrated the altar and denied the God ! They had 
removed from the last hour of their victims the priest, the 
Scripture, and the Cross. But faith builds in the dungeon 
and the lazar-house its sublimest shrines, and up through 
roofs of stone, that shut out the eye of heaven, ascends the 
ladder where angels glide to and from prayer. — Zanoni. 

And this is life eternal, that they might know Thee, 
the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent. 
— The Bible. 

M ISS ADELAIDE ROY accepted Mrs. Mar- 
tyn’s invitation, limiting her stay to one 
day at Newburg. In due time she arrived, and as 
Marion was at school in the morning there was 
opportunity for the two women to have a long 
and serious consultation about the girl’s future. 
Necessarily there were many points of disagree- 
ment between them; but these by tacit consent 
were avoided as far as possible, reference being 


50 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


made to her son’s wishes, only as Mrs. Martyn 
deemed it due to give an explanation of the seem- 
ing coldness with which the Roy family had been 
treated, in regard to the little Marion. Miss Roy 
had made up her mind to pocket the insult to 
her pride, which for more than ten years had 
alienated the two families. She had loved her 
twin sister with as true affection as earthly love 
can be, when unpurified by the love of heaven; 
but self had long been a ruling motive in her life, 
a motive which time and care had never been able 
to wholly efface. In one instance alone she had 
lost sight of that motive; in her devotion to her 
father, a devotion which had amounted almost to 
idolatry. Others saw little to admire in the cold, 
exacting man, who had scarcely seemed worthy 
of the name of father; yet these two understood 
each other. 

Olander Roy had taken pride in fashioning 
after his own mould the twin sisters, whose timid- 
hearted mother had early ceased resistance to the 
husband whom she feared, as well as blindly 
loved. His atheistic views, his indomitable pride 
in his own superior intellect, had won from her 
complete submission wdiile they struck terror to 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


51 


her heart; so that after some years of married 
life the poor wife had sunk into a nonentity, so 
far as her opinions were regarded; and in place of 
the rigid Puritanism of her youth, there had 
sprung up a chaos in her mind which resulted in 
a vague sort of Universalism, that comforted her 
amid the surrounding seas of unbelief. 

The one great blow to his false pride came to 
Olander Roy, when he found that the daughter, 
who had seemed most pliable in his hand, whose 
clinging nature and tender-heartedness had uncon- 
ciously twined themselves about the better fibres 
of his being, was like the willows that bend, but 
break not in the adverse winds, and rise erect 
after each succeeding storm. Gradually he 
became aware that the pliant nature had found a 
Rock of Ages upon which to fix itself in unchang- 
ing rest; an anchor for the soul, against which 
all the darts of the enemy were of no avail. 

The father first felt the change upon the 
return of the sisters from their second term at a 
school in Boston, a school chosen by him on 
account of its rationalism, as well as for its scho- 
lastic merit. It was there that Marion Roy, 


52 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


weary of the vain disputes, appalled by the apathy 
and haughty pride of those so-called free-thinkers, 
found herself continually groping for a truth but 
dimly seen in the depths of her struggling soul. 
Wandering alone one Sunday afternoon (for 
Adelaide had little sympathy for what she termed 
u a weakness,”) Marion had strayed into the 
shadow of a church porch from where the music 
within could be distinctly heard. It was the 
Epiphany season, and the white-robed choir was 
singing in sweet accents the hymn : 

“Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us Thine aid, 

Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.” 

Half frightened at her temerity, the girl crept 
into a back seat, and listened to the sermon that 
followed. It happened (or rather let us say, God 
willed) that the preacher was a young man, 
recently ordained, and having charge of the 
church in a temporary absence of its rector. He 
was filled with zeal for the Master’s cause, and a 
great longing to help souls to Christ in a city like 
ancient Athens in more than one respect; a city 
where many, many altars are daily erected to an 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


53 


“ unknown God. 1 ’ His theme was the closing 
verses of the Benedictus : 

“Through the tender mercy of our God: whereby the 
day-spring from on high hath visited us; 

“To give light to them that sit in darkness, and in the 
shadow of death: and to guide our feet into the way of 
peace.” 

To Marion Roy, who had never heard the Gospel 
in its true simplicity, but always as a book to be 
sneered at for its impossible doctrines, the simple 
narrative of the birth of Christ, His childhood, 
and divine mission came like a revelation to her 
bewildered soul. Eagerly she listened to the earn- 
est appeal that men would open their hearts to 
the glorious light of the “Dayspring from on 
high.” “To guide our feet into the way of 
peace.” What hunger of the weary soul might 
not here be satisfied? The way of peace! 

She thought of all that word “peace,” might 
bring to the home where it was not known; to 
the proud, self-satisfied, and yet restless father; 
to the despondent mother, dreading atheism, yet 
having no knowledge of the “truth as it is in 
Jesus;” to the twin sister, with her splendid 
powers of mind and body; and lastly, but great- 


54 


4 CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


esfc need of all, to herself, longing to hide in the 
Rock of Ages, yet scarcely able yet to bear the 
cross, to follow the Star of Peace burning brightly 
in the distance. 

After the sermon, she stole out again into the 
street, and wandered back to where Adelaide and 
a number of young companions were spending the 
afternoon, in reading aloud the latest production 
of a prominent infidel of the day. The contrast 
was unbearable; pleading a headache, the girl 
went up to her room to think, and — yes — to pray! 

Once or twice afterwards Marion Roy went 
again to the church where she had heard that 
memorable sermon; always quietly sitting in one 
of the back pews and hurrying away as soon as 
the services were over. Not so quietly, however, 
but that the young minister, intent upon his 
work of drawing souls to Christ, noticed the 
thoughtful face and wistful eyes of the stranger, 
eyes full of longing and unrest. 

One afternoon he overtook her on her way to 
the church, and, bowing courteously, mentioned 
having seen her there, and asked if her family 
attended elsewhere. Gradually he drew the story 
from her hesitating lips, and, deeply interested, 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


55 


prayed in his heart for grace to lead her to the 
Cross. That was the beginning of a friendship 
which lasted until death; for it was John Martyn 
who thus spoke to her for the first time. After 
that he always looked for her in the old seat, and 
when she came not, missed her presence from the 
listening throng. He was little surprised, how- 
ever, to learn, after a longer absence than usual, 
that Marion’s father had forbidden her further 
attendance at Church. 

U I must obey my father,’’ said Marion with 
downcast eyes, as one day they met upon the 
street. “But Mr. Martin, I have my Bible, and 
I will remember all that you have taught me.” 

u Grod will guide you,” he answered simply, 
though his heart ached foi her. 

So Marion and Adelaide went home again, 
Marion to be treated with contempt by Adelaide, 
and with open ridicule by her father. But the 
mother? For the first* time Marion realized what 
her mother must have suffered, and a new bond 
of sympathy sprang up between them, the timid, 
despairing woman, and the tender, hopeful girl. 
It was not long that she could be of use at home, 
for in less than a year the mother died. 


56 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


“I believe in the infinite mercy of God, my 
child,” she said to Marion, shortly before her 
death. 

“And in Jesus Christ whom He hath sent,” 
added the girl, bending over the worn face. 

“It may be so; I trust it is. God help you to 
be strong in your faith.” 

And Marion felt that with her mother’s death, 
life would be harder than before. It was at this 
crisis that John Martyn, w T ho had never entirely 
lost sight of her, came to tell her of his love, and 
to ask her to help him make a Christian home in 
the mission field he was about to undertake. 

Mr. Roy at first refused his consent, but find- 
ing Marion determined, said “she might go her 
own way.” 

From the day of her marriage he never 
mentioned her name until he learned of her death. 
Then a momentary wave of tenderness flowed 
over his selfish heart. 

“Poor little one! If there be a God, she will 
find Him in that eternity in which she believed. 
Well, Adelaide, you and I are left. For me,” 
with a bitter smile, ui Ma demeure sera bientot la 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


57 


neant!” (My dwelling place will soon be 
nothingness). 

Even Adelaide, the bold and brilliant, shud- 
dered as she listened to those words, and turned 
silently away. She missed her sister’s companion- 
ship more and more as time went on; and often 
the remembrance of Marion’s pleading blue eyes 
would bring tears to her own. But few saw her 
in these sadder moods; to most of her friends she 
was the same gay, callous woman, with a certain 
fascination of manner and brilliancy of wit that 
won admiration in spite of her assumed coldness. 

It had been said of the two sisters in their 
girlhood, that Marion was the beauty and Ade- 
laide the wit, and there was truth in the state- 
ment; yet both were possessed of bright, reten- 
tive minds. Adelaide, however, had one gift 
which compensated greatly for her lack of beauty; 
a voice of considerable compass and exquisite 
pathos, and she cultivated it with the ardor of an 
ambitious nature. Often at the informal parties 
gathered in the Roy house, that clear voice would 
move the listeners to tears, or, changing to a 
lighter key, would call forth peals of laughter 
from the guests. She knew her power, and had 


53 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


used it long and well; but often her heart was 
filled with longing for truer friendship; readier 
sympathy than was ever given her by her asso- 
ciates, many of whom little guessed her need. 

It was this yearning for love, devoid of flattery 
or favor, which made her thoughts turn persist- 
ently towards the child whom she had never 
seen; and when her father, too, had died, holding 
death to the last to be “the wreck to which all 
must come,” she felt more than ever drawn to 
the little stranger in whose veins ran the blood of 
her proud family. 

She decided to sell the old homestead, which 
now had but sad associations for her, and make 
Washington her temporary residence. 

In that city her nearest relatives (except 
Marion) lived, and in her frequent visits there 
she had formed an attachment for the place. It 
was at this juncture that she wrote the second 
letter to Mrs. Martyn, which resulted in her visit 
to Newberg. 

She resolved to accept as little as possible of 
that lady’s hospitality, and thus limited her stay 
to one day. 

Part of her family history was known to 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


59 ” 


John’s mother, enough to make that lady dread 
Adelaide’s influence for John’s child; so it was 
only after earnest entreaty from the aunt, and a 
sense of the justice of the plea, that Mrs. Mar- 
tyn consented to Marion’s being left to Miss Roy’s 
care in the event of her death. 

“You need not fear that I will try to influence 
the child against the desire of her parents. Her 
mother was dearer to me than all else, and I trust 
in some measure to atone for my seeming hard- 
ness in the past.” 

Strange words to come from those proud lips, 
but the lonely woman felt a relief in thus un- 
burdening her heart; and ties of blood are strong- 
est, after all. 

So when Marion came bounding into the 
room from school, she found waiting for her, the 
mother’s sister whom she had half-longed, half- 
feared to meet; but fear vanished when she felt 
the tenderness of Adelaide’s embrace. 

“So like her,” murmured Miss Rov, holding 
the child’s uplifted face in her hands, and gazing 
into the dark blue eyes. 

“Rightly named Marion, little one,” she said 
at last, kissing her again, as the child gently dis- 


60 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


engaged herself from the eager grasp of one 
whom the world had never seen so moved before 
by the power of unselfish love. 

And Marion, with her wondrously observant 
gaze, noticed the trembling of the proud lips, 
and the sudden lighting of the cold gray eyes. 
From that moment she felt that her new aunt 
would love her, and with the confidence of child- 
hood, she crept into the waiting heart. 

Dr. Thornton did not altogether approve of 
the grandmother’s decision. 

“Why did you not let me have her to educate 
as my own daughter?” he said, upon one of his 
flying visits. 

“I had not the heart to refuse her aunt, who 
has, after all, the strongest claim upon her. I 
believe John himself would say it is the right 
course to pursue, and the child has taken a fancy 
to Miss Roy,” replied Mrs. Martyn, but her face 
wore a troubled expression. 

“She must at least spend part of the time 
with me. Think of the home influence so sud- 
denly withdrawn at an age when she will need it 
most.” 

“I believe her early training, her child-faith, 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


61 


will defy all adverse influence. It is wonderful 
to see in one so young, the perfect trust she has 
in Jesus.” 

The doctor looked thoughtful, then added: 

“We’ll see; perhaps you are right. And it 
seems but just, after all, that her mother’s only 
sister should have some pleasure in the child.” 

A few moments later he was in the hall 
playing “Magic Rings” with Marion; and even 
Mrs. Martyn found their laughter contagious, 
leaving her easy chair to watch the progress of 
the game. 


CHAPTER V. 


“And her face is lily-clear, 

Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 

■“Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 

Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading into air; 

“And a forehead fair and saintly, 

Which two blue eyes undershine, 

Like meek prayers before a shrine. 

“Face and figure of a child, 

Though too calm, you think, aud tender, 

For the childhood you would lend her/’ 

— A Portrait. 

O N a quiet avenue in the city of Brooklyn, 
there stands, among a row of more modern 
buildings, a house of gray stone, conspicuous for 
its old-fashioned, comfortable aspect in contrast 
with the smarter appearance of its neighbors, a 
plain, four-story building, its only adornment 
being a small iron-railed enclosure around the 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


63 


windows of the lower story, and stone steps lead- 
ing up to the front door. Upon this door a silver 
plate bears the name of “Dr. Hugh Thornton; 1 ’ 
and here for a number of years Marion’s guar- 
dian had lived, having moved from Harlem a 
short time after the death of the Rev. John 
Martyn. He had sold his property and his prac- 
tice in that rapidly growing part of New York to 
a younger physician, and having won for himself 
a reputation, was easily established in the quieter 
city which he preferred as a residence, and where 
he had made many friends. 

It was in front of this same house that a 
young man in clerical garb paused in his rapid 
walk along the street, and after a scrutinizing 
look at the name on the door, ascended the steps 
and rang the bell. It was a warm afternoon in 
the latter part of September, and the sun beat 
down upon him with considerable force. It was 
with a feeling of relief, therefore, that he heard 
footsteps in the hall, and saw the door opened to 
admit him. Presenting his card, he was ushered 
into the cool, tastefully-furnished parlor, and 
seating himself in an easy chair, began to make 


64 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


use of a palm-leaf fan which lay on the table 
near by. 

As his eyes grew more accustomed to the 
light, their gaze wandered from the old portraits 
on the wall to the soft-colored piano lamp, and on 
through the open folding-doors to the dining- 
room beyond. Presently he found himself scan- 
ning a small figure curled up on a sofa, just 
within the farther room, and became conscious of 
a pair of startled blue eyes answering his gaze. 
The child rose as she found herself observed, and 
taking up the book that she had been reading, 
was about to leave the room, when the rustle of a 
lady’s dress was heard on the stairs, and Mrs. 
Thornton entered the parlor. 

“Stay, Marion,” she said, motioning the child 
to come towards her, “this is a delightful sur- 
prise, John; when did you arrive ?” 

“Just an hour ago,” replied the young man, 
kissing the sweet-faced woman whose hand held 
his in cordial welcome. 

“And you came right to see us — that was kind 
of you. Your uncle will be delighted to see you, 
and you know what a pleasure it is for me to 
have one of my family with me. We have been 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


65 


so long separated” — then seeing his glance wan- 
der towards the child, who stood reluctantly in 
the doorway, she added quickly : “This is Marion 
Martyn, the doctor’s little ward. Come, Marion, 
and speak to my nephew before you go. John is 
fond of little girls, I know.” 

At the sound of that name, the child regarded 
the stranger with a peculiarly earnest look from 
under her long black lashes; then advancing 
shyly, held out her hand to him. 

“I have a sister near your age at home,” he 
said, gently, bending down to kiss the fair face, 
whose owner drew back, half resenting the caress. 

“Is she the daughter of the Mr. Martyn who 
started the mission I used to hear Uncle Hugh 
speak of?” he asked, as the child left the room. 

“The same,” answered his aunt, “and that 
mission has since grown into a church, and has 
for its rector, now, dear old Dr. McKean. My 
husband often goes over to see him, and we shall 
never feel more interest in any church than we 
did in that one which grew up under our very 
eyes.” 

“And with your earnest assistance, I know,” 
added her nephew. 


66 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


His aunt smiled affectionately upon him. He 
was her only sister’s child; the home of their 
girlhood had been in the great city of Chicago, 
but some ten years had passed since she had seen 
any of her family except this nephew. 

u Tell me how you left the home people, and 
about yourself , 11 she said, drawing him to a seat 
on the sofa beside her. 

“All well, I am glad to say; Kate starting to 
school for the first time. You know mother has 
always had her taught at home before . 11 

“And yourself? We were sorry not to be 
present at your ordination.” 

“Yes; I’m through at last, and ready for 
work, please God . 11 

“Where do you go now ? 11 

“To be assistant to our old pastor, Dr. Nevis, 
of St. Luke’s . 11 

“Dear Dr. Nevis, how I should like to see 
him,” murmured Mrs. Thornton. She was a 
much younger person than her husband, Dr. 
Thornton not having married until after he was 

fifty- 

“Too much hard work, to think of falling in 
love,” he had said, until one day he met a charm- 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


67 


mg young lady from Chicago, and after that, 
business was slack for awhile. Mrs. Thornton 
was now about forty years of age, a gracious, 
queenly woman, whose cordial manner won the 
hearts of all who knew her, and whose lovely 
presence made the doctor’s house a home in the 
truest sense of the word. She wore a tea-gown 
of some soft, silvery shade, set off with black 
ribbons; and her prematurely gray hair lay in 
luxurious coils upon her shapely head. 

John Seymour noticed with a young man’s 
keen perception the graceful movements of the 
soft white hands, which only the wedding-ring 
adorned; he had known the time when those 
same hands had nursed him through a dangerous 
illness, and their cool touch upon his brow he 
remembered still. 

u Aunt Rena, didn’t I hear some story about 
John Martyn’s wife having been an infidel? 7 ’ 

“Not his wife,” she answered, saddening as 
she recalled the lovely girl she had known so 
short a time, but so well. “She was one of the 
loveliest Christians I ever knew, but her family 
were avowed unbelievers, and bitterly opposed 
the marriage. This child you saw to-day is 


68 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


named for the mother, and resembles her closely. 
I never saw a greater devotion than existed be- 
tween the little one and her father; although 
she was such a tiny child at the time of her death, 
she had been his companion since she could walk 
and talk. Even now, the mention of his name 
sometimes brings tears to her eyes, though she 
can hardly remember him distinctly. She has 
been brought up by her grandmother, a very 
stern old lady, yet a noble-hearted woman whose 
time has been taken up, and her strength severely 
taxed, by the care of an invalid daughter. The 
doctor thought the child needed more attention, 
and better advantages, than her grandmother 
was able to give her, so we persuaded Mrs. Marty n 
to let her spend this winter with us and go to 
school here. She is very little trouble, and 
almost as companionable as if she were grown. 
Indeed, I am constantly fearing she will develop 
too rapidly, and outgrow her strength. We have 
to watch her to prevent her over-studying; her 
tastes are well formed, too. Think of a girl not 
long past her twelfth birthday understanding 
Scott’s poems. l The Lady of the Lake,’ is her 
favorite.” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


69 


John Seymour was interested in this account 
of the child whose white face, in its setting of 
curls, had strangely impressed him. 

“There comes Uncle Hugh now!” he exclaimed, 
as a familiar step was heard outside. 

“My dear boy, I’m glad to see you!” was the 
cordial greeting, accompanied by a hearty hand 
shake. “You look somewhat more rugged than 
most of our young ministers just out of college, 
I’m glad to say; and to think he is a reverend, 
too!” 

The Rev. John Seymour laughed a little ner- 
vously, and stroked his brown mustache to hide 
his embarassment. He was of medium height, 
strongly built, with straight brown hair cut close 
above a broad forehead ; his eyes were dark brown 
with an occasional amber tint showing in the iris. 

“I suppose you have no difficulty in recogniz- 
ing me?” 

“Not the slightest; you have changed very 
little these five years, John. Of course you look 
somewhat older, have an air of the polished man, 
in fact; and then your mustache adds much to 
your dignity, to sav nothing of your personal 
beauty, eh?” 


70 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


“Oh, that’s a friend of almost five years’ 
standing, but not a very generous one, I must 
admit,” was the laughing reply. 

“By the way, John, I’ve been thinking if Dr. 
McKean should need an assistant, I would men- 
tion your name, that is, if you care for the work. 
It has grown tremendously of late years.” 

U I am pledged to Dr. Nevis for the present, 
thank you, Uncle, and I think I would not care 
to be assistant to any one else; in a few years I 
hope to be settled in a parish of my own.” 

“Independent, eh? I like that, but it is well 
to have experience. There’s no hurry about the 
other matter, though. I mentioned it to find out 
whether you would care to come to this part of 
the world; there’s probably a wider field where 
you are, and more life in your great western city.” 

“It is a grand city! Plenty of wealth and 
luxury, but there are the poor as well as the rich, 
the ignorant as well as the learned, the wicked by 
the side of the good, and often predominating; 
human nature is the same the world over, as we 
know. I don’t care for display. I desire to live 
simply and w T ork faithfully wherever duty calls, 
Uncle Hugh.” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


71 


“It is a sacred calling, John, and it is a joy to 
me to know that yon have not lightly taken it 
upon you, that you will reverently and earnestly 
perform the offices of a priest in the Church of 
God. Consecration is the greatest need, no 
doubt,” he continued, musingly, “and, thank God, 
there are many such men in this great city; but 
the harvest is great and the laborers are few in 
comparison. I often wish for John Martyn’s 
clear head and earnest heart; he always seemed 
to be filled with a supernatural fire, yet his motto 
was ‘I am among you as he that serveth.’” 

“I feel an interest in the work he started. 
There is a handsome church now in place of the 
little chapel, Aunt Rena tells me.” 

“Yes, it contains a beautiful memorial window 
to the founder; but the best memorial of such a 
man is the memory of loving deeds that God 
alone can reckon, but which live on in the hearts 
and lives of those who knew him, and teach us 
not to ‘despair of the world for which Christ 
died.’” 

“This is an age of benevolence, Uncle Hugh. 
Every day I see fresh evidences of the charitable 
spirit at work, in our cities especially.” 


72 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


“That is true, 1 ’ replied Dr. Thornton; “for 
instance, this Fresh Air Fund is a wonderful 
thing, and I am particularly interested in the 
Floating Hospital for sick children, and their 
poor mothers.” 

Hereupon the doctor launched forth upon his 
favorite theme, describing the various plans which 
the committee had on hand for the improvement 
of the vessel, increased accommodation, etc. 

“Here is a collection of photographs taken at 
the time of starting; the nurses and babies pass 
in before the inspector, whose business it is to 
see that no contagious diseases are taken on 
board; there they are on deck, and the trained 
nurses, our latest improvement, are walking 
around looking after the very sick ones. Bless 
me! when I get wound up on this subject I 
never can stop under an hour, and it’s time you 
were going to your room to rest awhile before 
dinner. I see my wife has slipped off while I 
was talking. I tell her she don’t appreciate the 
work; but she is as much interested as anybody, 
only she’s heard about it so many times. Come, 
John, this way,” he concluded, taking up the 
young man’s valise, and leading the way upstairs. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


73 


Marion had just returned from a walk through 
the park, with old Bridget, who had come in 
from the country on purpose to see her “darlint,” 
having heard of her being at Dr. Thornton’s. 
The two friends had found the afternoon all too 
short for the many confidences they had to 
exchange, and it was with tears of real sorrow 
that the child again bade her faithful nurse good- 
bye. 

“You are not too big to kiss me, pet?” she 
asked, as Marion threw her arms around “Biddy,” 
as she still called her. 

“I’ll never be too big for that, Biddy,” she 
answered, with a firm ring in her voice, as she 
spoke the words. 

John Seymour, looking over his Uncle Hugh’s 
shoulder at the photographs of the babies on the 
floating vessel, caught the drift of this conver- 
sation outside, and as he followed that gentleman 
upstairs, smiled to himself. 

“She’ll never be too big to kiss ‘Biddy,’ but 
she didn’t half like my kissing her to-day, the 
sly little puss !” 

Turning the passage-way, he caught sight of 
the girl in the hall below, her curls pushed back 


74 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


with one hand, in the other a box of her favorite 
chocolates — Bridget’s parting present. In spite 
of the smile that dimpled her flashed face, he 
never forgot the wistful gaze with which Marion 
stood watching the old woman’s retreating figure. 

At dinner, however, when she appeared in a 
fresh evening dress of soft white stuff, all traces 
of tears were gone, and Marion was the doctor’s 
pet once more, a very human little child who 
wanted cake and sweetmeats despite her guardian’s 
protests, but obeyed implicitly a single look from 
Mrs. Thornton whom she had secretly enthroned 
in her young heart as the “queen of love and 
beauty.” 

The bowl of autumn roses in the centre of the 
table filled the room with fragrance, and the 
evening light fell upon the party of four seated 
around the hospitable board; the bright rays 
brought out the golden threads in the child’s 
hair, and played in soft radiance among the 
petals of the creamy-tinted roses. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Ah ! my friends, when God’s great angel 
Cries aloncl the deeds of might, 

At the day when hearts are opened 
In the holy Father’s sight; 

Then the greatest deeds and noblest 
Will be those unheard of now, 

Hidden under silent heart-beats, 

And an uncomplaining brow. 

Deeds of pa f ient self-rejection, 

Wrung from hearts that made no moan, 

Tender hearts that like the Master’s, 

Trod the wine press all alone. 

— The Great Victories. 

T HE return of the spring days brought back 
to Marion’s mind her flower garden in New- 
berg; and she wondered whether Olivia missed 
the fresh bouquet that she was wont to have^ 
upon her table daily, or if Jessica Lynn would 
sow seed for them both, when the warm May 


76 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


days had prepared the ground. The child had 
often thought of her grandmother, and the home 
upon the Hudson; indeed, she seemed as much a 
part of the place as the birds that sang in the old 
trees on the lawn, building their nests each year 
in the same protecting branches. To Mrs. 
Martyn, the child’s absence had caused more 
pain than she would acknowledge, even to her- 
self; the winter evenings seemed long beside 
the lonely fire, though it burned as brightly 
as in former times, and she was unable now to 
wait upon Olivia as she had done when her 
strength was greater. Most of the care fell upon 
the faithful attendant who had known her from 
a child; but the mother often pondered over her 
daughter’s helpless state, and thought of Dr. 
Thornton’s advice to procure for her a comfortable 
home in an asylum, near the great city where he 
lived. She could not bear to think of Olivia’s 
being turned over to strangers’ care, and would 
put away the idea with a sigh; but again it would 
recur. 

“If Hannah would go with her, it would seem 
less hard, but that is too much to ask of her, 
after all these years of service, and being accus- 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


77 


tomed now to consider this place her home. We 
will try one more summer here, and Marion will 
be back with her merry ways; will come with the 
flowers, and the spring birds.” 

A smile illumined the wrinkled face, and she 
almost thought she could hear the child’s light 
step upon the stairs. 

Marion did come home again, but not with 
the spring flowers ; the crocuses, the tulips, and 
the early violets had ceased to bloom, but the 
June roses blossomed to welcome her coming,, 
and the little pansy bed beneath Olivia’s window 
was filled with its bright faces of velvety blue, 
and yellow, and maroon. Jessica had attended to 
the pansy bed, and felt amply repaid when she 
saw Marion’s delighted surprise over her “dearest 
flowers.” 

Her grandmother’s pleasure at her return 
showed itself in many little ways, which the 
child was cpiick to appreciate. The year in the 
doctor’s home had not been without its fruit;: 
while Marion’s physical growth had been rapid, 
and she looked tall beside her grandmother’s bent 
form, her mind had been equally developed, and 
her sensitive nature had expanded under the 


78 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


influence of Mrs. Thornton’s sympathetic love. 
The girl seemed to have regained the impulsive, 
affectionate nature which her father alone had 
heretofore known; and this affection showed 
itself in the desire to make some return to her 
grandmother, for her care in the past; so that 
Marion’s presence was doubly welcome, and she 
was a busy maiden all the long summer days, 
running errands, weeding flower-beds, and trying 
to remember all Mrs. Thornton had said about 
keeping up her music, and not tiring her eyes 
with reading. 

Frank Wilton was at home from school, too; 
he had grown into a tall, slim, young fellow, 
with a full sense of his own importance in the 
world, and looked upon Claude, his rollicking 
red-haired brother, his junior by one year, as “an 
awkward kid;” but Marion thought Claude’s 
freckled face and honest brown eyes were hand- 
somer than Frank’s pink-and-white skin, and 
yellow locks; this fact she confided to Jessica 
Lynn. The children were learning to play lawn 
tennis, and it was a pretty sight to the eye — the 
three little girls, Marion, Jessica and Maud, 
coming along the street of an afternoon with 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


79 


their rackets swinging, and their faces flushed 
with the exercise of the game. 

“A little lass with golden hair, 

A little lass with brown , 

A little lass with raven locks 
Went tripping into town.” 

So runs the rhyme, and such the picture that the 
streets of Newberg often saw that summer. 

The following autumn, Mrs. Martyn decided 
to rent her house, and carry out the plan of 
moving to Brooklyn for the winter. Hannah 
had consented to go with Olivia to the asylum, 
for a while at least; and Dr. Thornton used his 
influence to see that the latter was surrounded 
with every comfort. 

U I will drive you out to see her every day 
that you are able to go,” he had said to Mrs. 
Martyn in his kind-hearted way; and his wife 
had insisted that she should spend the winter 
with them, instead of going to housekeeping as 
she had intended. Mrs. Martyn realized her 
feebleness, and was grateful for the kindness of 
these friends, upon whom she had no claims of 
blood; the thought of being again separated from 
Marion was too hard for her to bear, so, to the 


80 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


relief of all parties, it was decided as the Thorn- 
tons wished. 

It was fortunate for Marion that she was 
with these kind friends, for, as the cold weather 
came on, it was evident that the grandmother 
was failing fast. Every day, when the girl 
returned from school, she went straight to her 
grandmother's room, sure to be rewarded with an 
eager look of welcome from the invalid, to whom 
her coming brought a glimpse of the outer world 
as it appeared to the bright child-eyes. Often, 
too, Mrs. Thornton brought her work into the 
quiet room, and Marion would read aloud, some 
of her grandmother’s favorite books, not always 
understanding them, but happy in the thought of 
the comfort they gave to the dear invalid. 

The cold March winds came, and with the 
wild gusts passed away the life that had braved so 
many storms in uncomplaining silence, and the 
heart “that made no moan.” 

It was hard for the child to realize that death 
had again taken away her nearest kindred; harder 
yet to realize that the home in Newberg was 
broken up, and that changed surroundings would 
soon come into her life. Child-like, she did not 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


81 


know the extent of her loss; years passed before 
the full realization came upon her. For the 
present, the tender sympathy of “Aunt Rena” (as 
she called Mrs. Thornton) filled the emptiness of 
the young heart, thus twice bereaved, yet not 
wholly motherless. 

Miss Roy came on to the funeral, and would 
have taken Marion back with her to Washington;: 
but Dr. Thornton urged that she might remain 
with them a while longer, continuing her studies,, 
which had suffered much interruption of late. 
Seeing that her niece shrank from any immediate 
change, the aunt gave an unwilling consent, and 
departed, feeling jealous of the gracious woman 
to whom Marion clung with all the strength of 
her earnest nature. 

“I will bide my time,” she said to herself with 
a cold smile, and went back to her books on 
science, and the friends who feared, as well as 
admired, her “bold, brilliant mind.” 

She had lately been much engrossed in pre- 
paring for publication a genealogical work of the 
two branches of her family, their ancestry, their 
Puritan training, and their influence, politically 
and religiously. It gave her a sort of satisfaction 


82 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


to trace a certain peculiar bent of the mind 
towards free-thinking, which appeared in various 
members in each successive generation; and she 
was proud of preserving the family archives for 
further reference. 

“Marion shall know one day, that she comes 
of a proud stock, not deficient in brains. My 
poor father ! to think that his only grand-child, 
does not know his name. 1 ’ 

Thus a new impetus was given to the work 
she had undertaken, as the time drew near for 
which she had longed, when her niece should be 
hers to train, and to love as she could love none 
else on earth. And the object of her thoughts 
and unremitting toil, was living on in her guard- 
ian’s home, unconscious of the future, and con- 
tent with the present; indeed, it was a sweet 
influence which surrounded her in Mrs. Thorn- 
ton’s refined presence, a wide, pure atmosphere of 
Christian life in its most ennobling sense. 

Sometimes, “Uncle Hugh” took his ward with 
him to visit Olivia in her new home, and always 
the girl carried flowers to cheer the afflicted one. 
Upon the first of these occasions, Olivia showed 
signs of recognizing the child, whom she had not 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


83 


seen for some months, by repeating a nursery 
rhyme which she had caught from Marion, years 
ago. 

“Tell me a story, Peggy, 

And, pray, what shall it be? 

Shall it be of a star, or a fairy ? 

Or, of children, like you and me?” 

Breaking off, suddenly, she said, coaxingly: 

“It’s a flower story, isn’t it, little one? You 
always tell me flower stories;” then buried her 
face in the bunch of sweet peas she held in her 
hands. 

Marion laughed at the recollection of u Peggy’s 
Story,” which recalled the old nursery, and 
Bridget listening admiringly to the rhymes, 
always delighted at the trick she had taught the 
little one of shaking her head mischievously over 
the lines: 

“No, don’t let it be children, 

They always do something wrong!” 

Marion was glad, too, that Olivia never grew 
tired of flowers; they amused her by the hour. 

The child loved to think how pleased her 
grandmother would be to know of the enjoyment 
the aunt derived from these visits; those last 
months of Mrs. Martyn’s life had drawn the two 


84 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


together more closely than ever before, Marion 
being the unconscious support of her grand- 
mother’s declining days. The elder woman’s 
stern manner had softened much when the pres- 
sure of care was removed from her mind, and she 
found her daughter comfortably established at 
the asylum. The relaxation from duty removed 
the necessity for rigid self-control, which for so 
many years had taxed her powers of mind and 
body to the utmost, and Mrs. Thornton’s tender 
sympathy brought to light the depth of affection 
hidden in that seemingly cold heart. The Doc- 
tor was charmed to find her interested in the 
benevolent schemes which he was always project- 
ing in his busy brain, and spent many spare 
moments explaining his plans to her attentive 
ear. Her death, therefore, created a sense of loss 
in the heart of each member of the little house- 
hold; it seemed that an incentive was, for the 
time, taken from their lives, when they no longer 
had to plan for her comfort and amusement. 

It was the following winter that Dr. McKean 
retired from active service in the ministry, on 
account of age and feeble health ; and the vestry, 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


85 


at the suggestion of Dr. Thornton, called the 
Rev. John Seymour to be his successor. That 
young man had proved a zealous worker, and a 
successful preacher in his native city, as assistant 
to his former pastor. Having a knowledge of 
the new field, for which he felt a special interest, 
he accepted the call, and shortly afterwards 
entered upon his rectorship in Harlem. 

Marion looked thoughtful over this news. 
She had been once to see this church, with its 
memorial window to her father. The memory of 
this beautiful token of his people’s love was very 
sweet to her. Often, she would steal away to her 
room, and, taking out the daguerreotype, her 
father’s last legacy , would gaze upon the features 
of those two faces, which she might never hope 
to see on earth; the one, gentle and fair in its 
womanly beauty; the other, strong and noble in 
its protecting love. She realized more keenly, as 
she gazed upon them, that no other love, how- 
ever sweet, can take the place of the parent’s 
love; yet, it seemed fitting, that in death these 
two “should not be divided,” and she loved to 
think of their united happiness in Paradise. 


86 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


Mrs. Thornton had once repeated to her Cowper’s 
words : 

“The son of parents who are in the skies,” 
and Marion took their tender meaning to her 
heart. The child of parents in Paradise ! that 
knowledge was of priceless comfort to the orphan 
child through all her after life. 

She continued an inmate of the Thorntons’ 
home, attending, daily, a select school for girls in 
the neighborhood, and becoming especially pro- 
ficient in music, which bade fair to be the absorb- 
ing passion of her life. As Mrs. Thornton had a 
rich contralto voice, it was Marion’s great pleasure 
to accompany “Aunt Rena's” songs with low 
melodies of her own devising; thus many happy 
evenings were spent, with Dr. Thornton for an 
appreciative audience. It was that gentleman’s 
delight to sit of an evening beside the table where 
his newspapers lay for perusal at his leisure, 
smoking his pipe (the “rose pipe,” Marion called 
it on account of its shape), and listening to the 
music in the adjoining room; or, if it were sum- 
mer time, and no business called him away, the 
windows were thrown open, and the veranda was 
at his disposal. Frequently some friend dropped 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


87 


in for a chat; and, among others, John Seymour’s 
thoughtful face was sometimes to be seen; or his 
deep voice to be heard, joining in some favorite 
song. It was a rare thing, however, that the 
young minister could find a spare evening from 
his many duties; and when such a time did chance 
to come, he was often too fatigued to make use of 
it, though the will was not wanting. His aunt’s 
cordial welcome, the presence of the shy, fair- 
faced girl in her mourning dress, and the hearty 
sympathy of Dr. Thornton, made the house 
attractive to one often wearied with the endless 
round of formal visits, which his pastoral duty 
called upon him to perform. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Oh bappy bond that seals my vows 
To Him who merits all my love; 

Let cheerful anthems fill His house, 

While to His sacred throne I move. 

— Rev. Phili}) Doddridge. 


NE day, late in March of the following year, 



Marion stood by the dining-room window, 
looking out upon the yard below, where the 
tender blades of grass were beginning to give a 
spring-like aspect to the place. Some modest 
violets were also budding forth, tinging the grass 
leaves with their purple hue. 

The girl had but recently passed her fifteenth 
birthday; but her tall figure and rather pensive 
face gave the impression of a longer acquaintance 
with recurring spring-tides. She was standing 
half concealed by the heavy curtains, and thus 
her presence was unknown to the master and 
mistress of the house, who entered the room 
together, talking earnestly, but in subdued tones. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


89 


“She has never mentioned her feelings upon 
the subject to me, but I believe she intends to 
fulfil her baptismal vows. I would speak to her, 
but fear to force a decision which should come 
from the heart.’ 1 

“And yet,’ 1 answered the doctor, thoughtfully, 
“we are in a measure responsible. I feel that 
it is a special charge from above to help in 
some way the realization of her father’s desire. 
But you may be right, my dear, we must do our 
best, and leave the rest to God.” So saying, Dr. 
Thornton left the room. 

It had come so suddenly upon Marion, the 
knowledge that she was the subject of their 
conversation, that she stood irresolute for the 
moment, and only the sound of the doctor’s 
departing footsteps awoke her to a sense of her 
position as listener. The quick color rose to her 
cheeks at the suggestion of any deception upon 
her part, and hastily throwing aside the curtain, 
she stepped into the room, and approached Mrs. 
Thornton’s chair with an agitated face. 

“I didn’t mean to listen, Aunt Rena; I really 
never thought you were speaking of me,” she 
began. 


90 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


Mrs. Thornton drew the girl to a chair beside 
her and answered affectionately: 

“There is no harm done, dear. Indeed, I was 
just wishing for a talk with yon.” 

“Isn’t it about confirmation, auntie ? I always 
wanted to be confirmed, but I thought, perhaps, I 
was too young yet;” she stopped, with an appealing 
look at her adopted mother. 

“You must decide for yourself, ray child. I 
do not think you are too young to realize the 
importance of the step; and, Marion, I know 
your desire to live near to Christ cannot be satisfied 
until you have confessed Him before the world.” 

“It is my wish to do so,” was the low reply. 

“Think well, darling, and pray over it, as you 
always do, I’ve no doubt, when you need to make 
a decision. We would feel thankful indeed to 
know that you are safe within the fold. It will 
be a safe-guard for the future, and I believe you 
will not regret the step. Think how glad they 
will be in heaven to know that the covenant of 
Baptism is sealed.” 

Marion’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as 
she pressed Mrs. Thornton’s hand in her owu. 

“The Confirmation class meets every Friday 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


91 


afternoon ; I will go with you, if you wish,” con- 
tinued that lady. 

So it was arranged that Marion should attend 
these weekly classes ; and the girl’s glad, earnest 
countenance, as the time of the Bishop’s visit 
drew near, filled the household with a quiet joy. 

Easter fell late that spring ; but the Lenten 
services had borne much fruit. On Palm Sunday,. 
Marion was one of a large class presented by the 
white-haired minister, for the consecration of 
their lives to the service of Christ and His 
Church. 

The church that witnessed the solemn scene,, 
which is in itself ever new and momentous to the 
consecrated soul, was one of the oldest in Brook- 
lyn. It was a long distance down town to Christ 
church from the Thornton’s residence, but they 
had many sweet associations with it, and would 
have walked much farther to attend its hearty 
services. Dr. Thornton’s thoughts strayed many 
times during the opening service to that death- 
bed of fifteen years ago; to the young mother, 
dying in the faith; to the white-robed father and 
the unconscious babe. Could it be the same little- 
one who sat beside him, with pale, attentive face r 


92 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


herself a woman, almost, in years? It was a 
fatherly hand that rested upon Marion’s tremb- 
ling fingers, as the candidates were asked to come 
forward to the chancel rail; and with a mother’s 
tenderness, Mrs. Thornton laid aside the girl’s 
simple black straw hat, with its wreath of snow- 
drops, and watched the slender form move up the 
aisle, and take its place with the others waiting 
there. 

It was in truth the consummation of the 
many prayers and hopes which had followed 
Marion from her birth. 

The soft, subdued light, that came through 
the stained glass windows, was in keeping with 
the hush that fell upon the congregation as the 
Confirmation service proceeded. 

The Bishop’s voice was heard distinctly to the 
farthest corner, as, with the laying on of hands, 
he prayed for each newly pledged soul the nrayer 
that never fails to touch an answering chord in 
the hearts of the hearers. 

“Defend, 0 Lord, this, Thy child with Thy 
heavenly grace, that she may continue Thine for- 
ever, and daily increase in thy Holy Spirit more 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


93 


and more, until she come to Thine everlasting 
kingdom.” 

Many bowed heads in the congregation felt 
again the touch of the holy hands that years 
ago were laid upon them, when, in the freshness 
of life’s morning, they had taken their stand 
within the Ark of God. To many it was a renewal 
of the solemn vows which human frailty, alas ! so 
often breaks in weakness, but which the power of 
Christ’s love redeems from failure, bringing the 
wanderer again and again to the mercy-seat. 
Some, too, there were in that listening throng r 
still without the fold, who yet longed for that 
prayer to be said over them, straying far on life’s 
tempestuous way. 

The world’s great poet has truly said: 

“All indistinctly apprehend a bliss, 

On which the sonl may rest.” 

What is that bliss of the soul but the love of 
the Creator, which alone can satisfy the created? 

The covenant was sealed with outward sign 
and inward grace. A calm light shone upon the 
fair face so lately tremulous with tears, and 
Marion, with many others, had begun the pilgrim- 
age which Christian once courageously entered 


94 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


upon ; where Christian found the Hill of Difficulty 
and the Slough of Despond; but where, too, he left 
his burden at the foot of the Cross, rested in the 
House Beautiful, and reached at length the city 
of the living God. It was but the beginning of 
the end, and Apollyon waited near. But in vain 
the enemy’s watch, when the Lord of Hosts 
keepeth the citadel. 

The first Communion on Easter morning was 
fraught with sweetness for them all. The quiet 
streets along which they passed, the morning 
light breaking over the silent city, the solemn 
hush within the church, the pure Annunciation 
lilies against the bank of dark green leaves; all 
these influences combined to fill the heart with 
peaceful gladness on that Easter morn. 

“The Lord is risen,*’ was the theme of every 
heart, though few spoke the joyful word; a hush 
was upon the lips of the tlnong. 

“Drink this in remembrance that Christ died 
for thee, and be thankful.” 

“Thankful!” It was the keynote of the day. 
The promised Presence of the Lord was felt by 
those who knelt in silence at His table. 

“I wonder if there ever will be such another 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


95 


Easter day!” It was Marion who spoke in a low 
tone, as she seated herself on the sofa beside Mrs. 
Thornton that same Sunday evening. The day 
had been as beautiful and spring-like as could be 
desired; the Easter music was still ringing in 
their ears. They had decided to spend the evening 
quietly at home, as the Sunday school celebration 
that afternoon had required their presence, both 
as teacher and scholar, and they felt the need of 
rest. 

Mrs. Thornton broke the momentary silence 
following Marion’s remark by saying softly: 

“Yes, there will one day be a more glorious 
Easter than we have ever seen.. Think what it 
will be when 

“ ‘The strife is o’er, the battle done, 

The victory of life is won, 

The song of triumph is begun.' 

“Remember, Marion, that for us the battle is 
but begun,” and he who would follow in His 
train — we know the answer well — must patiently 
bear His cross below.” 

“It does not seem so hard, auntie, when we 
think of His presence being with us always,” and 


96 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


Marion’s face wore a look of peace which no 
thought of future cloud could mar. 

There was, indeed, very little to trouble 
Marion in that happy home, where the days 
glided smoothly by, each bringing its allotted 
tasks which love made easy to perform. Her life 
had known sorrow in the sense of bereavement; 
but in another, and perhaps the hardest sense, 
she had never tasted the bitter cup; always there 
had been some protecting friend to guide her 
pathway; and her sunny nature had not failed to 
find response in the affections of those about her. 
Frequent letters from Jessica Lynn kept her 
informed of the news of Newberg, dear old New- 
berg! already it seemed like a dream, so many 
events crowding out the memory of those quiet 
days with her grandmother and Olivia, in the 
home now occupied by people who were strangers 
to their past. 

And Frank Wilton had entered the naval 
academy at Annapolis. Jessica wrote that he 
was quite grown up, and was even coaxing a 
mustache! “How very absurd it is!” thought 
Marion, as she read the letter. “I wonder what 
Claude will do ? he’s such a mischief; I’m afraid 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


97 


he’ll never settle down to anything. Jessica 
says he is as full of fun and freckles as ever. 
How I would like to see them all again.” 

When school was over, Dr. Thornton himself 
took her for a glimpse of Hudson scenery, and it 
ended by his leaving his ward to spend a month 
with her friends in Newberg. 

It was a very pleasant re-union with her 
former playmates; and Marion even learned not 
to mind the pious roll of Mr. Wilton’s eyes which 
she had dreaded as a child. The minister’s wife 
was the same cheery, bright-faced woman, always 
busy in her household with her children around 
her. If Marion noticed now that there was 
something lacking of the innate refinement to 
which she had grown accustomed, a little narrow- 
ing of the Thornton’s horizon, she ascribed it to 
the larger sphere in which the latter moved. 

But horizons are not limited, they widen into 
space; the purer the atmosphere, the higher are 
the heavens; and this atmosphere can exist in the 
tiniest circle as well as within the broadest zones. 
It was, perhaps, this indefinable difference which 
made Marion find Claude the most companionable 
of his family. He lacked the polish of manner 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


which Frank had inherited from his father; but 
there was a genuineness of feeling, a frankness of 
speech which rendered him more of a universal 
favorite than his brother. 

“You see, Marion, Fm just the same bashful 
boy, and as handsome as ever,” were the laughing 
words after they had exchanged greetings. 

He secretly worshipped the ground she walked 
on, and would have put himself to any trouble to 
do either of the girls a service; but he dreaded 
being teased, like all boys of sixteen years of age. 

Frank, on the other hand, was gallantry itself. 
He was at home for the summer holidays, and his 
cadet suit became him well; he was really a tine- 
looking young man, if Dr. Thornton did say he 
was “a pretty boy,” which phrase made Frank’s 
ears tingle for many days thereafter. 

Jessica was smaller than Marion, and was 
also a contrast in coloring; her light hair, brown 
eyes, and soft complexion promising a style of 
beauty more attractive to many, than Marion’s 
statelier presence. 

Maude was still another type, being a veritable 
“nut-brown maid,” as her father called her; brown 
eyes, brown hair, brown skin, but with a dash of 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


99 


brilliant color that relieved the sameness. Being 
four years their junior, she was still a playful 
child, the pet and romp of the three families; and 
she viewed the other girls with the admiration 
due young ladies in their teens. 

All too quickly the month sped by; the boat- 
ing, and fishing, and the picnics had been endless 
•sources of amusement; but Mrs. Thornton had 
written that they would spend a month in the 
Adirondacks, and it was necessary for Marion to 
return to Brooklyn, to prepare for this second 
trip. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The human heart asks love. 

— Frances Ridley HavergaL 

M ISS Adelaide Roy was one morning, in the 
early part of June, wandering from room 
to room of her handsomely furnished suite of 
apartments, in a house on one of the streets that 
cross Rhode Island Avenue. A restless mood 
was upon her, for it was the day appointed for 
Marion’s coming, and it yet wanted several hours 
before the time for that young lady’s arrival. 

The aunt had spent days in planning and 
fitting up the room which her niece was to occupy. 
It was on the same side of the apartments as her 
own, and a door formed means of communication 
between the two chambers. In contrast to the 
almost severe simplicity of her bed chamber, with 
its old-fashioned walnut furniture brought from 
the New England homestead, Marion’s room was 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


101 


furnished in oak, the ceiling and walls tinted pale 
blue, which was the predominating color in the 
hangings of the bed and windows. Exquisitely 
dainty was the taste displayed throughout; and 
even Marion never knew the love and thought 
expended there. 

Upon the shelves of the small revolving book- 
case, was a selection of choice volumes; among 
others, a copy of Shakespeare, bound in calf, 
which bad belonged to the twin sisters in their 
girlhood days, and which for many years Miss 
Roy had kept in readiness for the little Marion’s 
coming. 

The only ornaments upon the polished mantel 
were two Venetian vases, tilled with fresh flowers, 
and, in the centre, a bronze clock. The bureau, 
with its appointments, the washstand with its 
blue-rimmed toilet set, the round work-table, 
over which was draped a fringed scarf of olive 
China silk, the cool matting— it was no wonder 
the lady looked her satisfaction at the result of 
her work. It showed a combination of taste and 
practical wisdom, rarely to be found, even among 
women. An artist’s eye was hers, but the 


102 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


woman’s hand had carried into effect the pictures 
of the brain. 

Over the mantel hung a landscape in oils* 
painted by Miss Roy some years ago, and repre- 
senting a woodland scene near the ancestral home. 
She wished, as far as possible, and in an indirect 
way, to lead the girl’s thoughts to that old life of 
which she, as yet, knew almost nothing. 

Crossing the hall, Miss Roy entered the 
sitting-room opposite, which served also as a 
salle a manger for the informal parties often 
gathered within these rooms. The heavy portieres 
of the winter season had been taken down, which 
left an unobstructed view of the parlor. 

Pausing to converse a moment with the 
African parrot, perched in his cage near the 
window, she took a rapid survey of the two 
rooms, then, moving swiftly towards the piano* 
she began looking over the music-folio. 

“Marion must be a ‘musician,” was the low 
murmur, as she turned the pages slowly, “no Roy 
was ever unmusical. I shall teach her myself* 
and have no annoyance about schools, or gov- 
ernesses, to go through with.” 

So her thoughts wandered on in plans for the 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


103 


future, for Marion’s instruction, and Marion’s 
amusement. In the midst of her musings, the 
sitting-room door opened, and luncheon was 
announced. 

An hour later, Miss Roy was on her way to 
the Sixth Street depot, to await the arrival of the 
New York Express. The train came in, and, 
yes! there was Dr. Thornton’s portly figure com- 
ing up the platform, and Marion, in her dark 
dress, walking beside him. Greetings were 
exchanged, and soon the three were driving rap- 
idly along the smooth streets of Washington to 
Marion’s new home. Arrived there, the trav- 
elers rested in the cool parlor, and refreshments 
were promptly served. Then Dr. Thornton took 
his leave, after repeating to his ward the oft- 
spoken instructions to write frequently, and to 
consider his house her home; to all which the 
girl listened eagerly, and Miss Roy, with polite 
acquiescence. It would take time, she knew, for 
Marion to become used to her new surroundings, 
and feel that this was her true home. 

“You will come to see me often, won’t you, 
Uncle Hugh?” Marion said, 'wistfully, clinging 


104 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


to that gentleman’s hand, and following him to 
the door. 

“Yes, dear child. I want you always to think 
of me as your father’s friend, and in some meas- 
ure hoping to fill his place to you. Remember,” 
he added, in a low voice, u I am your godfather, 
and must entreat you to keep in mind your 
baptismal vows. You are ‘a child of the covenant,’ 
little girl.” 

“I will remember,” she answered, earnestly. 

“ To-day I shall see a friend in the city here, 
rector of the nearest of the churches, and he will 
come to see you soon, I trust,” added Dr. 
Thornton. 

u Thank you, uncle,” and again her arms were 
about his neck, in a farewell embrace. 

Her aunt took her to the sweet room awaiting 
her, and Marion would have been ungrateful, 
indeed, not to have appreciated the thoughtful 
preparations for her comfort and enjoyment. An 
exclamation of delight escaped her as she entered 
the pretty bed-chamber, and her pleasure in its 
beauty of arrangement increased as her eyes 
rested upon the little book-case, and the flowers 
on the mantel. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


105 


“Oh, auntie, you are too kind,” she said, joy- 
ously, forgetting her grief at the recent parting, 
in her enjoyment of the present pleasure. 

Miss Roy accepted the demonstration smilingly. 

U I wish you to be happy here, my dear, and 
feel at home with me. This room shall be your 
sanctum when you are tired of my company.” 

This idea brought an answering smile to the 
girl’s face, and, after her aunt’s departure, she 
sank upon the low couch by the curtained win- 
dow, and contemplated her recent journey, and 
surroundings. Gradually these things became 
unaccountably mingled in confused vision, and 
soon she was fast asleep. 

Miss Roy came once to the door, and looked 
in upon the sleeper. Marion had substituted a 
soft, white wrapper, for her travelling dress, and 
lay with one hand resting on the arm of the 
sofa, the other under her flushed cheek, while her 
abundant hair fell unconfined upon the cushion. 
After one long look, the aunt withdrew softly, 
and the girl slept on until late in the afternoon. 
Refreshed by her slumbers, she arose, and opened 
the blinds that looked out upon the park at a 
short distance from the corner of the house. 


106 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


The magnolia buds were bursting into a mass of 
white bloom, and their fragrance was wafted to- 
her, as she breathed the evening air. 

“Is it not delicious?” she heard her aunt’s- 
voice saying, as a friendly hand was laid upon 
each shoulder. 

“It is, indeed. Am I very late?” she asked r 
turning away from the window. 

“Oh, no; there is time for you to dress before 
dinner. I came in to tell you, and to see if you 
needed anything. Your trunk is in this room r 
which I keep for a general store-room,” and 
throwing open a door on the farther side, Miss 
Roy displayed a small room, where half-a-dozen 
trunks and boxes were arranged along the wall. 

“It is very convenient,” said Marion, stooping 
to unlock her trunk, and taking therefrom a 
white mull dress for evening wear. 

“I am glad you are wearing white this sum- 
mer; mourning is very oppressive. I have worn 
it myself for several years, but this evening will 
put on a gray gown in your honor.” 

“You were in mourning for your father, were* 
you not, Aunt Adelaide ?” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


107 


“My father, and your grandfather, Marion, 1 ’ 
was the reply, and Miss Roy sighed deeply. 

u Yes, I meant that , 11 said the girl, hurriedly. 
U I want you to tell me all about him, and about 
my mother. You must have been happy together 
when you were girls. I think it would be so 
pleasant to have a sister , 11 she added, wistfully. 

“Yes, we were always together when we were 
young girls. But it is time for you to dress now. 
Come into my room when you are ready . 11 

A half an hour later, Marion knocked timidly 
at her aunt’s door. It was opened instantly by 
that lady, whose handsome figure showed to 
advantage in the evening toilet of gray silk, with 
white trimmings. Marion, herself, deserved her 
aunt’s half-murmured compliment. She looked 
indeed, a “white rose,” just when its petals begin 
to open to the light, and suggest depths of love- 
liness yet un revealed. 

They descended the stairs together, and passed 
out of the hall into an adjoining house, where 
Miss Roy took her meals; around the long tablfr 
was assembled what, to Marion’s bewildered eyes, 
appeared a host of strangers, before whom she^ 
felt an insignificant child; there were, in reality,. 


108 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


about thirty persons, some living in the house, 
and others merely table boarders, gathered for the 
evening meal. The girl followed Miss Roy to 
the place assigned her, and found herself seated 
between her aunt and a young girl her senior by 
perhaps one year, with whom she soon became 
acquainted, and Marion soon found that Miss 
Brooke was the daughter of a naval officer, and 
during the latter’s absence abroad, was boarding 
temporarily in Washington with her mother, a 
pale-faced woman who sat on their right. 

The sense of strangeness began to wear off, as 
she listened to Pauline Brooke’s account of the 
places she had visited, and her acquaintances in 
the city. The house was kept by the widow of a 
naval officer, who was a charming hostess, as 
well as a true-hearted woman; being left with 
the care of an aged mother, and a daughter of 
fifteen to educate, she had gone bravely to work, 
and opened this house for boarders, many of her 
friends of more prosperous days being among her 
U guests,” as they liked to be called. Mrs. Wood- 
ruff had collected, in her travels with her husband, 
many beautiful pictures, and dainty knicknacks, 
which went far to make her house attractive to 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 10 £ 


cultured people; the table, too, was always 
exquisite in its appointments, dainty china beings 
the one weakness in which she allowed herself to 
indulge; a weakness which her boarders considered 
an additional charm to the many good qualities 
of the hostess. 

In the pauses of the conversation between 
the two young girls, Marion caught fragments of 
the talk around her. Miss Roy, and a German 
professor opposite her, were having an animated 
discussion over the merits of a new opera, which 
was exciting a furore in the musical world. 

The professor was a small, wiry man, with 
very blonde hair and mustache; he had a way of 
taking off his eye-glasses when he wished to- 
emphasize a statement, then hurriedly readjusting 
them, oftentimes to the detriment of his shorty 
and somewhat aspiring, nose. Marion found 
great entertainment in furtively watching the- 
eye-glass process. 

Miss Roy and the professor were friends of 
some years’ standing, and enjoyed an occasional 
war of words, invariably ending in that gentle- 
man’s retiring from the combat with the amicable- 
statement: 


110 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


“Well, Mees Roy, we are of the same opinion 
in the main, which is only differently expressed. 
There must be allowance made for difference of 
expression always.” Then seeing the twinkle of 
triumph in his antagonist’s steel blue eyes, he 
would hastily change the topic of conversation to 
one of more trivial import. 

Dinner over, all dispersed to their different 
apartments, Pauline Brooke having expressed her 
intention of “calling very soon;” she had taken 
a fancy to Miss Roy's niece, which Marion seemed 
to reciprocate. 

That evening was spent in looking over some 
music with her aunt, and listening enraptured to 
the voice which had so often swayed the hearts of 
the listeners. 

“Yes, Marion possessed the Roy trait, a pas- 
sionate love of music; and her aunt was pleased 
to find how thoroughly the girl understood the 
principles of music, and with w T hat expression she 
played. As yet her voice was undeveloped, but, 
though sweet in tone, it could never equal her 
aunt’s in compass. 

In the midst of one of the songs, in walked 
the professor on tip-toe, motioning -to Marion 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


Ill 


not to betray his presence to her aunt; but the 
parrot, who had just waked up from a nap, sang 
out in a disgusted tone : “There he is again!” and 
Miss Roy stopped to laugh at the in-apropos 
remark. She was induced, however, to finish the 
song, the professor meanwhile brandishing his 
cane at his enemy, sulking in its cage. 

Later, he took possession of the piano, and 
played in such a magnificent manner that Marion 
held her breath with excitement. Chopin’s 
waltzes trickled from his fingers like drops of 
water from a sparkling spring, and ever and anon 
the clear notes of some pathetic strain filled the 
soul with infinite longing. Suddenly the music 
ceased, and the little man turned to catch the 
look of intense listening upon the fair young 
face; the girl’s hands were clasped nervously. 

“Aha! the young Mees is a music lover too, I 
see. Would she like the old professor sometimes 
to help her comprehend the great masters?” 

Marion looked toward her aunt. 

“It is a great honor the professor does you, 
Marion. I soould be happy to know that you 
are under his training, but I fear to tax his time.” 

“Not for a friend, Mees Roy, is there to be 


112 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


mentioned of taxing time; but it is not often 
one sees so much music in a face. It is a long 
time since I taught music, Mees Martyn, but I 
consider it an honor to once again have a pupil 
to mould after my own thought,” and the little 
man bowed with his glasses in one hand, and a 
music roll in the other. 

“I thank you,” was the simple reply. 

So Marion’s musical education bade fair to 
rival even that of her aunt’s anticipation. 


CHAPTER IX. 


HE clergyman of whom Dr. Thornton had 



made mention to his niece, called within 


the week following her arrival; and having pre- 
viously heard Marion’s history from her guardian, 
was prepared to become her friend and spiritual 
adviser. But, despite his efforts, and Marion’s 
evident pleasure upon seeing him, Miss Roy’s 
presence and cool politeness served as a barrier to 
any personal conversation with the young girl; 
and the minister took his leave, feeling that he 
had gained but little by his visit, yet trusting to 
future opportunities to win Marion’s confidence. 

She wished to attend the Friday afternoon 
Bible class to which he had invited her, and her 
aunt made no objection to her going; but in 
some unaccountable way those particular after- 
noons seemed always filled up, either in doing 
some important shopping, or going by special 


114 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


request from Miss Roy to return some call that 
could be made at no other time. 

The Church services had always been very 
dear to the girl, and she could not bear to miss 
them. Sunday seemed like any other day at 
Miss Roy’s; and though Marion attended church 
regularly every Sunday morning, the afternoons 
were given up to receiving visitors informally, 
and the girl could scarcely keep aloof from these 
pleasant gatherings that seemed harmless in 
themselves, but left little time for the quiet hour 
of reading to which she had been accustomed. 

She felt a sense of loss, yet was unable to 
redeem the time thus unprofitably spent as far as 
religious development was concerned. Often, in 
the midst of the circle where displays of wit and 
brilliancy could scarcely fail to dazzle and attract 
her unsophisticated mind, she would feel an 
irrepressible regret for the quiet, yet happy, Sun- 
day evenings with Mrs. Thornton and the doctor; 
in place of the light songs she now heard, -there 
would often ring in her ears the echo of some 
familiar hymn, whose peaceful beauty had appealed 
to her higher, spiritual nature. 

But Marion was young, and naturally fond of 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


115 


society; then, too, she did not realize the gradual 
breaking up of the old associations. Things 
that would have shocked her religious senses in 
the past, seemed but slight transgressions of the 
law, when applied to the aunt whose talents she 
admired, and who was gaining over her young 
mind an ascendency of which the girl herself 
was but little aware. 

Yet, despite the laxity of outward forms, 
she never lost her child-like faith in God, and in 
a personal Saviour. Morning and night her 
petitions arose to the throne of grace; and there 
was One who slumbered not, but kept eternal 
watch about the fair young soul, exposed to the 
perilous darts of its adversaries. 

One afternoon, shortly after Marion’s arrival 
in Washington, Pauline Brooke came to call, 
and when the heat of the day had lessened, the 
two girls walked out together. Marion felt keen 
interest in exploring the broad avenues, and the 
picturesque parks in the immediate vicinity of 
their residence; it seemed delightfully airy and 
quiet after the rush and din of New York; indeed, 
Brooklyn itself was lively in comparison. There 
was, however, a look of comfort about the presi- 


116 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


dential city, and, at this season, especially, the 
air was redolent with the fragrance of blossoming 
plants and trees. % Something of the Southern 
grace and languor attached itself to this meeting 
place of the nation’s representatives; a breath, 
perhaps of the old Dominion skirting the city’s 
rapidly-spreadin g bou ndaries. 

Miss Brooke was full of eager anticipation of 
her father’s home-coming; for he had recently 
been appointed the captain in charge of the Navy 
Yard; and the two young friends planned many 
happy days to be spent in that beautifully-ordered 
home of the Washington Navy during the coming 
season. In the meantime, they would be separ- 
ated for the summer months, as the Roys were 
going to the country in a few days. 

Upon her return to the house, Marion found 
Miss Roy entertaining a visitor, a tall, broad- 
shouldered man, whose kind face was framed in 
a setting of thick gray hair, and flowing beard of 
somewhat whiter hue. His small, keen eyes had 
in them a shrewd twinkle, suggestive of good- 
humored intelligence, which softened perceptibly 
as Miss Roy introduced him to her niece as “ my 
very best friend, Mr. Hallowell.” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


117 


“And your oldes-t,” added that gentleman, 
smiling, as he returned Marion’s greeting with a 
cordial hand shake. u Your aunt looks upon me 
as a patriarch, so you must consent to be the 
patriarch’s great niece,” he continued, furtively 
scanning the young girl’s countenance, as if 
striving to place her likeness to some well-known 
face. (He had known Marion’s mother and 
grandmother before her.) 

Marion soon found that this was the friend 
who kept Miss Roy’s library supplied with the 
rarest books of the old style, as well as the latest 
novelties of the literary world. His home was in 
Chicago, the city of John Seymour’s nativity, and 
Marion found herself listening eagerly to descrip- 
tions of that great western metropolis which Mrs. 
Thornton so much loved. 

“Some day,” said Miss Roy, “ we shall take a 
trip through the great West, when Marion has 
finished school, perhaps.” 

“Then I shall take pleasure in showing you 
around our city; and you can take a look at my 
library. I think it contains every book you could 
mention, and many you would not be apt to call 
to mind.” 


118 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


Mr. Hallowell was connected with a large pub- 
lishing house in Chicago, and his library was his 
hobby, a commendable one, it must be admitted. 
His stay in the East was brief, and the time was 
mostly occupied in discussing a work on botany 
which Miss Roy was to send him for publication; 
it was finally agreed that at the close of the sum- 
mer, the promised book should be forthcoming, 
the authoress pleading for time to give the work 
a more careful revision. 

The following week, Miss Roy and her niece 
left the city for a quiet country neighborhood 
some thirty miles distant, in Virginia. Miss 
Roy had chosen this sequestered farming district 
that she might find time for her literary work, 
and Marion have opportunity to gather roses 
in her cheeks, while she breathed the pure country 
air. The house was a comfortable, gray stone 
building of remote date, whose original owners 
belonged to a branch of an aristocratic family, 
some members of which had played an important 
part in the history of the state; the last of the 
name who had owned this estate had lived and 
died a bachelor. His property passing into other 
hands, had been sold to an industrious farmer 


A CHILD OF THE CO VENANT. 


119 


from Michigan, under whose energetic manage- 
ment it suffered no detriment ; on the contrary, 
it was a model farm for many miles around. His 
wife and two daughters (the younger, Marion’s 
age) took equal pride in keeping up the home- 
stead, and often pointed out to visitors a certain 
window pane, upon which was scratched the name 
of the last owner of the place. The house was 
surrounded by shade trees, and to the northward 
was a large apple-orchard. Beyond the rolling 
hills on the west, the dark ranges of the Bull 
Run mountains were overtopped by the Blue 
Ridge, whose pale outline appeared as a misty 
reflection of the sky. 

The Hudson scenery might be grander, Marion 
thought, but it could not have a more peaceful 
beauty than this which greeted her eyes, as she 
looked from her window soon after the arrival of 
the travellers at u Buena Vista.” 

It did not take many days to become 
acquainted with the home and its inmates. They 
had few near neighbors; but this was rather an 
advantage, Miss Roy thought. Her days were 
spent in rambling over the farm, examining the 
wild flowers, and giving the girls object lessons 


120 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


in botany. It was some time before Marion 
could overcome her repugnance to the idea of 
dissecting the flowers, which she loved as emblems 
of the beautiful and pure; but gradually her 
desire to know their history overcame this dis- 
taste, and she caught botanical phrases from her 
aunt with a readiness which caused that lady 
secret amusement. 

Their morning walks were frequently alone, 
as the farmer’s daughters were occupied with 
household duties; it was during these rambles 
that there often came to Marion, with painful 
force, the knowledge that while the works of 
nature were, to her, fresh proofs of the wonder- 
ful power of God, they were, to her aunt, but a 
part of the material world, possessed of beauty as 
unmeaning as that of the cold crystal of the 
u inorganic kingdom.” Between the crystal and 
the flower, with its life-germ, exists as wide a 
difference as lies between the material and the 
spiritual Avorlds. Such thoughts often came 
confusedly into the young mind, the seed of 
future spiritual harvest; but no word relating to 
this difference of their inner lives passed between 
them; Marion felt incompetent to express her 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


121 


belief in words, and her aunt held in honor her 
promise not to use undue influence over the girl. 
Truth was a strong element in Adelaide Roy’s 
composition; her convictions were honest in their 
owner’s light, and therefore she upheld them with 
proud and stern tenacity. 

For Marion, she believed that in time the girl 
would outgrow the “superstitions” of her youth. 

Once, when pleaded with by her dead sister, 
Adelaide had replied; u My heart might consent, 
but my reason never could,” and that so-called 
reason was the keynote of her life thereafter. In 
spite of the silence maintained upon religious sub- 
jects, both aunt and niece felt a painful conscious- 
ness of this mutual reserve; there can be no true 
confidence between the Christian and the atheist, 
however honest each may be, for life is viewed by 
each from a widely different point of view. Take 
Christ away, and the mainspring of the Christian’s 
life is gone, the motive of his existence is destroyed. 

Marion found one friend in the house with 
whom she could talk upon this subject. Lucy 
Freer, the farmer’s oldest daughter, was the only 
member of the f amity who had made a profession 
of religion. The father and mother belonged to 


122 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


that large class of persons, not hostile, but indif- 
ferent, to religion in any form, yet of correct 
moral principles, and steady habits. When Lucy 
expressed her desire to become a Christian, her 
father had simply advised her to “wait a while,” 
and then left the matter to his daughter’s decision. 
And Lucy had decided for herself. She was in 
earnest in this, as in every work of her life, and 
for three years she had gone bravely on, alone in 
her belief, but always hoping and praying that 
her family might be brought into the fold. Over 
Alice, her junior by several years, she had watched 
with unremitting devotion, yet so far with little 
outward result. They were so opposite in their 
tastes and dispositions, it was difficult for them to 
fully understand each other’s feelings, although 
their love for each other was sound at the core. 
Lucy, the burden-bearer, was of an outspoken, 
determined nature; one who would go through 
any amount of hardship without a murmur. 
Alice, the pet, was of a more sensitive tempera- 
ment, more inclined to moods of playful wilful- 
ness, or of temporary despondency, than her sis- 
ter. The latter’s calm, practical mind found it 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


123 


difficult to understand the younger sister’s capri- 
ciousness. 

It was into this family that Marion was intro- 
duced, and she formed, as it were, a connecting 
link between the sisters. Of Alice’s age, and 
sharing her love for the ideal in life, Marion’s 
training, and the peculiar circumstances of her 
childhood, had given her a thoughtfulness beyond 
her years, and, as before stated, there was one 
strong bond which cemented her friendship for 
the older sister, and helped her to realize the lat- 
ter’s difficult position. 

In the afternoon, Marion and Alice took long 
rides together around the farm, or to the neigh- 
boring village. The country girl here had 
decidedly the advantage, and merry was the laugh- 
ter over Marion’s attempts at horsemanship. It 
was not long, however, before she learned the art, 
for fearlessness, the chief requisite, was a part of 
Marion’s nature. To this was added a love for 
animals, especially horses, which was usually 
reciprocated by these dumb, but otherwise intelli- 
gent creatures. 

At the dairy, too, Marion was welcome. 
This was Lucy’s province, and the skill with 


124 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


which she worked and printed the pats of golden 
butter, was an unfailing source of wonder and 
admiration to the city-bred girl. The spring 
house, through which gurgled a clear streamlet, 
was a pleasant place of a summer morning, both 
to the worker and the on-looker. 

Within the house Alice had fitted up a studio. 
It was a small room at the end of the hall up 
stairs, where the girl kept her drawings, and 
sketches of her favorite nooks on the farm. 
She had taken lessons from a good artist, and her 
work showed promise. To Marion, who had no 
talent in that direction, making pictures seemed 
as wonderful as working butter; and her praises 
were a help to Alice, who often felt the need of 
encouragement, however partial. 

On the whole, the summer was passing pleas- 
antly for them all. The busy, active life of these 
country girls did not prevent cultivation of the 
mind, as Marion had been inclined to think 
would be the case. Indeed, their healthy pursuits 
served as a tonic to her, physically and mentally, 
and she began to long for a share in their useful- 
ness. The contact of these three young natures, 
with their varied bent, widened their lives per- 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


125 


ceptibly. To Marion, especially, young compan- 
ionship was invaluable at this period of her life. 

Two miles from Buena Vista was a small 
frame church, where Church services were held 
weekly. The scant population of the surrounding 
country made up a straggling congregation, in- 
creased somewhat in the summer months by the 
exodus from the city. Lucy had recently taken 
active part in trying to build up a Sunday school, 
and some success had attended the labors of the 
“faithful few.” She had now a class of ten boys, 
in whose welfare she took the deepest interest. 
Marion often accompanied her to the church, and 
before the summer was ended, felt a personal 
love for the quiet chapel on the hill. It was a 
glimpse of heavenly beauty, the blue sky gleam- 
ing through the foliage of the trees outside the 
open windows, and the “peace which passetli 
understanding,” seemed borne to her upon the 
soft, summer breezes. 

In every soul there dwells a longing for the 
“temple without hands, eternal in the heavens,” 
and surrounded by the beauties of nature’s God, 
the believing heart should sing with deeper mean- 
ing its “Nearer, my God, to thee.” Alas! that it 


126 


A GUILD OF THE COVENANT . 


is too often otherwise. To Marion, the familiar 
service came as a friendly voice of her childhood. 
The minister’s clear tones fell like an echo of 
music upon her ears. What was it in his voice 
that recalled the past? Again and again, she 
strove to bring back some memory that constantly 
eluded the grasp of her will. Suddenly, like a 
flash of lightning, it came to her — the remem- 
brance of words spoken in her father’s tender 
voice: “Yes, darling, God loves us both.” Strange 
truth, this similarity of voices between persons 
of different blood and clime, a likeness which 
often brings back the memory of our loved ones 
more forcibly than mere facial resemblance. 


CHAPTER X. 


EW YEAR’S DAY had dawned, but not in 



l \ the bright crispness of a clear winter morn- 
ing, as had been the hope of some young hearts 
in the city, who had been eagerly looking forward 
to this time of festivity. Among others, Marion 
and Pauline were to assist at the Commodore’s 
reception. Commodore and Mrs. Levering had 
planned a “rosebud” reception, as their only 
daughter was still of tender age, and their son, 
Harold, of the naval academy, was to be at home 
for the occasion. Mrs. Levering was always 
charmed to have around her a party of young peo- 
ple; already she had found out Pauline and her 
friend, and they had been informal visitors at her 
house. Vivacious and charming of manner, the 
Commodore’s wife was a favorite in society at 
large, as well as in her own immediate neighbor- 
hood. Her husband, a tall, fine-looking man of 
some sixty years of age, had abroad the reputation 


128 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


of sternness, but in his own home his bearing 
was tender and courteous. 

Within doors, that New Year’s day, all was 
warmth and light, the shutters being drawn, and 
the gas lighted; a bevy of young girls between 
the ages of sixteen and twenty, surrounded their 
hostess in the front parlor. In the lower end of 
the room, potted plants from the greenhouse 
gave a tropical effect to the scene, and strains of 
music from players in the background, added to 
the enchantment of the place. Outside, the 
streets were slippery with ice, and few persons 
were to be seen battling with the wind and 
sleet. Gradually, as the day wore on, the more 
venturesome braved the storm, and peal after peal 
was heard at the door-bell. Marion stood next 
Mrs. Levering, and was engaged in a laughing 
rivalry with her young companions, as to which 
should take out the greatest number of callers for 
refreshments. The novelty of the occasion, and 
her thorough enjoyment of the company, had 
brought a flush to her cheeks, and lighted her 
eyes with brilliancy. So the evening wore away, 
and the New Year, with its unknown joys and 
sorrows, was fully ushered in. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


129 


Marion’s life that winter, thanks to Miss 
Roy’s good common sense, continued as before,, 
the mornings being filled up with her studies 
under the direction of her aunt, while the profes- 
sor guided the musical department “after his own 
heart,” as he expressed it, which meant for 
Marion hours of practising, interspersed with 
bits of interesting music from her teacher. 

It was not until the following winter, after a 
summer spent at a well-known watering-place, 
that the girl was fairly launched in society; then 
followed a season of gaiety, when she had need of 
all her strength, physical and mental, to keep up 
with the ceaseless round of parties and receptions 
into which, “for Marion’s sake,” Miss Roy suffered 
herself and her niece to be drawn. Pauline’s 
previous year of initiation proved invaluable in a 
certain way; she was a popular girl, not intel- 
lectual, but possessed of a superficial brightness 
which made her appear above the average, and a 
droll amiability that softened the keenness of her 
wit. 

Marion entered on the new life with the 
enthusiasm of youth. But can the moth approach 
the candle and not singe its wings? Inevitably 


130 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


the girl was dazzled by the glitter of the light, 
and fluttered near the dangerous flames. Thanks 
to her inheritance of love and purity, to her early 
training, and to the memory of a truer life, she 
shrank from the contact. 

“ Pauline,” she said one day, “do you know 7 
there is one thing that worries me about these 
parties? If one could just choose the persons one 
likes and approves of, it would be so pleasant; 
but to be obliged to talk to those of whom one 
disapproves, and appear pleased with them because 
they are rich or great, seems such a mockery.” 

“Don’t disturb your sweet soul, child, about 
other people’s sins. We must take life as it 
comes, and enjoy the sweets while we can,” and 
Miss Brooke settled herself back with an air of 
satisfaction. “For my part, I think it is a 
passably charming world on the whole, if one 
will take it as one finds it. Of course there will 
be snobs everywhere, but what of it ? It would 
be a Herculean task to reform society, mon arnie, 
and one not to be undertaken by two young 
women freshly launched upon its dangerous 
waves;” and Pauline watched her friend’s face 
with some anxiety. Lately she had noticed a 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


131 


disposition oil Marion’s part to sift trivial matters 
through a superfine sieve. 

Marion made no reply, and the subject was 
dropped for the time. There rankled in her 
mind a discussion which had lately occurred 
between herself and a young lawyer, who visited 
them occasionally. He was a man of polished 
manners, and elegant appearance; but his smooth, 
evenly rounded speeches, veiling sarcasm that 
seemed to Marion intentional, impressed the girl 
unfavorably. Yet she could not account for her 
aversion, she simply felt it. Pauline liked him, 
and he visited at Captain Brooke’s more frequently 
than elsewhere. On a recent occasion, when 
Marion was staying at the Navy Yard, Mr. Lennox 
had called. During the course of conversation, 
the question was propounded by him: “Is a man 
legally responsible for a moral wrong ?” 

The lawyer suavely argued for the negative, 
until his auditors felt that in a worldly sense, at 
least, he had won the case; but Marion Martyn 
could not overlook the fact, that while one may 
not be responsible to the law of man for moral 
wrong, there was a higher law by which he must 
be held accountable, or else the foundations of 


132 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


society are undermined. What most troubled 
her, was the utter ignoring of the power of that 
higher law, by one well-versed in the lower. 
Every now and then, the recurrence of that ques- 
tion haunted her mind, only to be banished by 
other thoughts which came at this time to engross 
her. 

Her affection for Jessica Lynn had never 
lessened, despite their long separation, and the 
different circumstances which surrounded their 
lives. In the letters which they wrote each 
other, they continued to exchange confidences as 
in former days; and Marion knew from the tone 
of her friend’s epistles, that Frank Wilton’s 
avowed attachment for the doctor’s daughter was 
the one absorbing theme of the girl’s quiet life. 
Yet here was Frank, dangling at Pauline’s side, 
apparently oblivious of the sweet, fair, young life 
which lived in the thought of him in the far-off 
Newberg. And Marion was powerless to save 
the one friend in her dread of injuring the other. 
She breathed more freely now that Frank’s 
vacation was over. 

He and Harold Levering were both ordered off 
on their first cruise; and, for more than one 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


133 


reason, Marion felt relieved as the appointed day 
of departure drew near. Harold had lately shown 
a decided preference for her society, a wish for 
more than a friend’s place in her affections; and, 
while she felt the woman’s natural pleasure in 
being the object of his adoration, she was too 
uncertain of her own heart, to wish matters to be 
brought to a crisis. It was pleasanter to go on in 
the old friendly way; to be able to depend on 
Harold without feeling that he required more 
than a friendly word, and smile, for his services. 
He was of a quiet, reticent disposition, and pos- 
sessed a depth of character which Marion appre- 
ciated, in proportion as she realized the shallow- 
ness of many of the young men with whom she 
was daily thrown. She felt that he was a friend 
worth keeping, yet the thought of him as a 
possible lover was distasteful to her. So, with a 
vague hope that all would go on in the old way, 
and that their friendship would be kept up by the 
medium of letter-writing, when each would have 
much of interest to write the other, Marion put 
from her mind the day of decision, and lived on 
in the enjoyment of the present. 

It was on the evening of his departure, that 


134 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


Harold Levering found himself in the Roy parlor, 
having come to bid Marion adieu. The flowers 
he had sent her a few hours earlier, were arranged 
in a dainty glass bowl on the flower-stand beside 
him. He had chosen the creamy-tinted roses 
which she loved; and as he sat looking at them, 
and waiting for her coming, he determined anew 
to learn his fate. His voice trembled slightly as 
he arose to meet her; and Marion looking into 
his troubled face, knew that the dreaded hour 
had come. He did not relinquish her hand, but 
strove to read the unspoken answer in the clear 
eyes that looked so frankly into his. 

“Marion, I am come to say good-bye. Tell 
me that there is hope for me, that I may look 
forward to my home-coming, and know that your 
love awaits me.” 

Marion’s face grew paler as she gently with- 
drew her hand. 

“Oh, Mr. Levering, I am sorry. I hoped we 
might keep on with the old friendship, at least 
until we knew our own hearts.” The distress in 
her voice increased as she spoke, for Marion felt 
that she was giving pain to one who truly loved 
her. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


135 


“Know our own hearts!” he repeated, “you do 
not care for me, or you would not say that. For 
me, I can never change; but I will wait, and 
hope. Oh, my love, you do not know how your 
truth and loveliness have sustained me these two 
years; how my love for you absorbs my every 
thought, waking or dreaming.” 

“I dare not tell you to hope,” was the low 
reply, “it would be more unkind, although you 
may not see it now.” 

The tenderness in her voice soothed his despair. 

“I am satisfied to wait, so long as no one else 
has won your heart — wait and work. Yes, I will 
work for your approbation, if I may not win 
your love; and I would not have it unless freely 
given,” he added, proudly, but with a wistful 
glance which went to her heart. 

“I seem to have no love to give,” she answered, 
sadly, “but I shall think of you often, and miss 
you from my life.” 

“Thank you for those words,” he answered, 
gravely. “Is there anything I can do, any last 
service for you before I leave ? And you will let 
me write?” 

“Yes,” she replied, “there is one favor I want 


136 


A CHILI) OF THE COVENANT . 


to ask of you. Something which will be a lasting 
service to others as well as to me. It is about 
Frank Wilton,” she began, hesitatingly, and then 
followed Jessica’s story, which no one but herself 
knew; but she trusted the confidence of the man 
to whom she told it. 

“You may rely on me to influence him as far 
as possible. He is a fine fellow in many ways; 
but you and I know that he lacks strength of 
character. Ah, what a treasure he is throwing 
away — a woman’s undivided love. He knows not 
its priceless value. Good-night, and good-bye. 
Bid me 1 God-speed,’ my friend!” 

“I do, with all my heart; and believe that 
whatever you may be called on to endure, the 
strength will be given you to go bravely onward.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


Ah! it is you; with that brow of truth, 

Ever too pure for the least disguise, 

With the same dear smile on the loving mouth, 

And the same sweet light in the tender eyes. 

— Phoebe Gary. 

O NCE again, Marion Martyn stood in the 
familiar room in the Brooklyn house; in the 
room where the associations of childhood, and the 
remembrance of her grandmother, crowded upon 
her over-poweringly. Four years had passed 
since she bade farewell to the Thornton’s home, 
which had been hers in the truest sense of the 
word ; and now she stood by the window as she 
had been used to do, the same, yet not the same, 
being. 

She was spending her twentieth birthday with 
her old friends; merely a flying visit to New 
York, as her aunt could not spare her long at a 
time; the dependence of the elder woman upon 
the idolized niece had increased with the years, 


138 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


and the separation of even a week’s time was 
painful to Miss Roy. “Something the heart 
must have, to love and to cherish,” and, for 
Marion, the proud heart stooped low in its love. 
Especially was Miss Roy jealous of Mrs. Thornton’s 
influence; and Marion, who felt towards the latter 
a daughter’s affection, was careful to avoid exciting 
this jealousy, for fear of an estrangement arising 
between the families. 

This yearly visit to Brooklyn was the one 
right she insisted upon, claiming it as proof of 
her continued esteem for her guardian. She 
stood looking out upon the fitful March day, the 
clouds driving furiously across the heavens, and 
the wind whistling around the corners of the 
streets. The girl apparently partook but little of 
the stormy nature of her birth-month, so calm 
and gentle was the face uplifted to the wind- 
swept sky; but there were soul-depths stirring 
within that pure breast, and shining from her 
dark eyes. 

* The day of “sweet sixteen,” when our grand- 
mothers were in the zenith of youth’s beauty and 
power, has given place to the more lasting bright- 
ness of maturer womanhood. To-day, the world 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


139 


requires something more than facial beauty for 
its feminine ideal; there must be added to the 
sweet freshness of girlhood, a higher development 
of intellect to meet the true needs of an enlight- 
ened people; the cultured woman is the woman of 
the day. The danger lies in overstepping the 
line; in a tendency to direct her influence away 
from its true center of usefulness — the home; 
intellectual culture appears most beautiful when 
combined with a practical knowledge of the 
duties that essentially belong to woman, and it 
should be the aim of our female colleges to form 
their pupils after this mould. For the accom- 
plishment of this object, time is required: as 
woman’s sphere widens, a longer period of prep- 
aration is needed; therefore, it is, that the 
development of a girl of to-day is slower than it 
was in the early half of the nineteenth century, 
and more frequently is heard to-day the praise of 
“sweet twenty,” than of “sweet sixteen.” 

At twenty years the blush of maiden-hood is 
still fresh upon the cheek; the dreams and ideals 
of youth remain yet to be fulfilled or disillusioned; 
joy, love and hope are the prevailing sentiments; 
yet there is an added charm of womanly dignity, 


140 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


of riper knowledge, of clearer insight than the 
more unformed mind of younger years can know. 
It is, as it were, a point of time where the young 
heart would fain rest; where every breath is 
happiness; where there comes no sense of regret 
for the past, and no desire to hasten the untried 
future. 

Some such sense of joy filled Marion’s heart 
that morning, as she went about the house, croon- 
ing some love song which rang in her ears con- 
tinually, and brought lingering smiles to her rosy 
lips. She wore a morning dress of pale blue, in 
contrast with which the blue of her eyes took a 
deeper hue, and upon her corsage was pinned with 
a silver arrow, a cluster of early snow-drops, the 
birth-day flowers which the doctor had previously 
bribed the old market woman to bring in for 
that day. 

Coming lightly down the broad staircase, the 
girl became aware of some one standing just 
within the hall door, and watching her, and she 
immediately found her hand grasped in cordial 
pressure by John Seymour. 

“You did not know I was to be the honored 
guest to-day?” he said, his eyes lingering upon 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


141 


the fair face, then added with a half-sigh, “Ah! 
the child is the woman now .’ 1 

Was there disappointment at that first meet- 
ing? He hardly knew. Vanished was the child 
face he had so often pictured, with its unconscious, 
mirthful look; the luxuriant dark curls, that had 
hung in tangled waywardness about the dainty 
shoulders, were now gathered into a graceful coil 
upon the well-poised head, only a few stray 
ringlets shading the white forehead. But the 
face seemed more intellectual, the eyebrows 
seemed more clearly outlined, and the mouth 
more sweetly curved. As he looked, the merry 
light came back into her face, which at the 
moment of greeting had been serious of cast, and 
with the roguish smile he remembered well, 
Marion said: 

“You think the change is for the worse? I’m 
sorry for your disappointment, but, indeed, I 
cannot help it, sir!” 

“I shall not tell you my thoughts,” he retorted, 
playfully, “suffice it to say, the old days are no 
more. So you are twenty to-day,” he added, 
wistfully. “It is so long since I was twenty I 
should like to know how it feels.” 


142 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


“Just exactly like nineteen,’ 1 was the reply, U I 
can’t feel a bit older than I did yesterday; but, 
seriously, it does seem very old, doesn’t it?” 

“ I suppose you regard me as a Methuselah, 
then ; for I celebrated my thirtieth anniversary a 
short time since.” 

“You never seem old to me,” was the quiet 
answer, as Marion descended the last step, and 
together they entered the parlor; but, even as she 
spoke, and they came into the clearer light, she 
noted the change that four years had wrought in 
him. Hard work, and close application to study, 
showed in the increased thoughtfulness of his face, 
the rather stern mouth, and an occasional gray 
hair about the temples. Yes, John Seymour 
would never be a young man again; at thirty he 
had out-grown his youth, but he still retained his 
enjoyment of its pleasures. 

Those words of Marion’s, so simply spoken, had 
gone straight to his heart; “You never seem old 
to me.” If that were true, what possibility the 
future still held out for him, for him who in his 
early manhood had known one passing dream of 
love, and had since steeled his heart against its 
inroads; for him, the idolized young minister, to 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


148 


whom the most exclusive houses in the city held 
open doors, and for whom more than one fair 
woman was willing to risk her happiness, but in 
vain ! At last, there dawned upon him the knowl- 
edge that this child whom he had seen grow into 
womanhood could alone fill his heart. Bah ! was 
he dreaming ? to dare to think that he could win 
that fair young life to cast its lot with his ! She 
looked upon him as an elder brother, nothing 
more, and with strong effort of will, he put the 
thought of happiness from him. 

The day passed pleasantly for them all ; it had 
been months since John Seymour had given him- 
self a holiday, and he felt a school boy’s delight 
in the absolute freedom from care, and the restful- 
ness which the Thornton’s home seemed always 
to impart to those who came within the shadow 
of its walls. 

The doctor and his wife were the two 
unchanged ones of the little party which once 
again gathered in the dining-room. Mrs. Thorn- 
ton’s queenly form, and sympathetic face, and the 
doctor’s portly figure, and kindly countenance, 
were the same as of old, and soon the talk flowed 
as freely as if no years had intervened since last 


144 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


these four were seated around that familiar board. 
After dinner, the gentlemen remained in the room, 
while Marion and Mrs. Thornton went to the lat- 
ter’s sitting-room upstairs, to have one of their 
long, cozy talks, in the midst of which cards were 
brought to Marion from below. 

“Claude Wilton, and Jessica Lynn, what a 
delightful surprise !” and presently there was a 
burst of laughter from the parlor, and exclama- 
tions of joy which brought Dr. Thornton to the 
door. 

“Hello P this is a pleasure for our little girl. 
How are you Claude ?” shaking that young gentle- 
man’s hand, and bending to kiss Jessica’s pretty 
face. “The dimples are all right, I see,” he said, 
caressing the soft cheek uplifted to him. “Well, 
I’ll leave you for awhile, and finish my talk with 
Seymour.” 

“Is that fellow here?” asked Claude, making a 
comical grimace, as he heard the doctor’s parting 
remark. 

“ Yes, he’s here,” laughed Marion. 

“Does he drop in every day? in a friendly, 
cousinly manner, of course !” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


145 


“No; this is his first visit since my arrival; 
but I hope it won’t be the last.” 

“Whew ! she’s just like the rest of the girls 
now-a-days, Jess; she smiles on the parsons. I 
don’t wonder, though, for they’re such a steady 
lot of men, and don’t lead their sweethearts a 
dance, like me, for instance (seeing Jessica’s color 
rise); now I don’t blame the girls for not wanting 
a good-for-nothing scamp, who can’t stick to one 
thing long enough to make a success of it.” 

The lazy, teasing tone had changed percepti- 
bly, and Marion was quick to note the dissatisfac- 
tion hidden by the raillery of Claude’s manner. 
So when Mrs. Thornton came into the room and 
engaged Jessica in friendly conversation, quite 
winning t/hat young lady’s heart, Marion took the 
opportunity to fathom Claude’s speech. 

“ Are you not going to study law, Claude ?” 

“ There was some talk of it, and, to tell the 
truth, I am pegging away at it now; but, some- 
how, I don’t feel enthusiastic over it,” he 
answered, moodily. “ I was made for action, not 
study, as I tell my father ; but he doesn’t believe 
it. Of course, he’s disappointed that I don’t take 
to the ministry; but, I tell you what, Miss Marion, 


146 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


I’m not a hypocrite, if I am a sinner other- 
wise, and I just couldn’t settle down to going 
about with a long face and wearing a gown; it 
doesn’t suit my ideas of manliness.” 

“ If that is your ideal minister, I feel sorry for 
you, Claude,” she began, gently; then suddenly 
remembering that such must naturally be his 
ideal from association, she stopped short, coloring 
quickly. 

“Since we came to New York to live,” Claude 
said, hastily, u my father has had his hands full 
of work, and I could have helped him, I suppose. 
I know it must be my fault, that we don’t seem 
to understand each other.” 

“I know it is not want of capability on your 
part, Claude; but it may be lack of application, 
and absence of enthusiasm, as you say. Surely, 
no man would dare to enter the sacred ministry, 
unless he felt called of God, and willing to throw 
all his energies into the work. You are right to 
shrink from its responsibilities, and its self- 
sacrifices, if you feel yourself unworthy; but, oh, 
Claude, * don’t waste* your manhood in playing 
with life; think of its glorious possibilities, and, 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


147 


whatever you do, make the best use of the 
splendid opportunities that God has given you.” 

Marion’s voice increased in intensity as she 
spoke, and every feature of her expressive face 
showed the emotion she felt. As Claude Wilton 
listened, and watched her, the old adoration sprang 
up anew. More moved than he cared to show, he 
answered, slowly, his gaze fastened upon her face: 

u Perhaps if I had some one always with me, 
some one in my home to inspire me to work, I 
might become worthy of such inspiration.” 

Marion’s color deepened, and she could not 
quite conceal the fine scorn that tinged her 
answer: 

“Such should not be the case; the fountain of 
truth, which is the mainspring of true manliness, 
must find its source within your own breast; no 
outside influence can avail, if there exist not a 
‘mind conscious of its own integrity.’” 

Claude felt the implied sting, but could only 
say in a low tone: 

“The time may yet come when you will find me 
not wanting in true manhood.” 

“I believe it, Claude, I have always believed in 
you, and it is my desire for your advancement 


148 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


that moves me to speak as I have done. Forgive 
me, if I have said too much.” 

“That could never be.” 

In the dining-room, John Seymour had at 
last brought the doctor’s confidences to an end, 
and their entrance into the parlor also brought to 
a close the above conversation. 

Claude Wilton re-assumed his usual manner — 
that of the gay cavalier — his frank, open counte- 
nance, contrasting with his light, and oftentimes 
frivolous, speech. To a casual observer, this splen- 
did specimen of young manhood, with its stalwart 
frame and well-developed muscles, seemed but a 
wasted gift; but there were some (and Marion 
among the number) who knew of acts of unsel- 
fishness, and deeds of courage, which would 
honor the noblest hero of song or fiction; in 
time of peril, his was the bravest heart, the most 
daring hand; and, for the sick and helpless, none 
gave more tender sympathy, or readier aid. But 
Claude’s laughing lips never betrayed the secrets 
of his heart; nay, they rather hid them from the 
common gaze. 

Jessica was persuaded to remain with Marion 
during the latter’s short stay in the city, and the 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


149 


afternoon passed in planning expeditions for Miss 
Lynn’s benefit, it being that young lady’s first 
visit to New York City. 

John Seymour listened to their joyous talk, 
and felt himself outside the young world in which 
they moved with the free step of youth ; but only 
for a moment. Mrs. Thornton’s ready tact un- 
consciously drew him into the charmed circle, 
and he soon found himself laughing at Claude’s 
mischievous sallies, and enjoyed Jessica’s confu- 
sion; it generally fell to Marion’s lot to protect 
that gentle maiden from the teasing propensities 
of her sweetheart’s brother. And Frank Wilton 
had returned to the old allegiance; letters came 
regularly, giving detailed accounts of his first 
voyage, and filled with mention of Harold Lever- 
. ing’s kindness. 

“Levering will make his mark some day,” 
Frank wrote; “already he is high in favor with 
the officers, and expects to turn his inventive 
powers to account. He’s a man of brains.” 

Marion was grateful to her absent friend for 
his influence over Frank, and could not resist a 
feeling of pride in Levering’s chance of promotion. 


150 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


So affairs had shaped themselves smoothly, and 
the day passed happily by. 

The day of departure came, and the farewells 
were said hopefully, as the friends expected a 
speedy re-union at no distant hour. In his study 
that morning, John Seymour vainly tried to con- 
centrate his thoughts upon the theological treatise 
that lay before him on his desk. Rising impa- 
tiently from his study-chair, he took several 
restless turns about the room, then re-seated him- 
self with his thin lips tightly compressed. 

“It’s no use thinking of her. I would not 
ask the sacrifice, even if there were a shadow of a 
hope for me.” And with a determined counte- 
nance he took up the freslily-cut magazine, and 
plunged into the subject with his usual ardor. 

And Marion, flying homeward on the south- 
bound express, mused on this wise: 

“He thinks I am a child, and not worth his 
notice; if he only knew how I miss the old life, 
perhaps it would be different.” The eyes that 
looked out dreamily upon the flying landscape 
were filled with a sudden mist not caused by the 
car-smoke without, but equally dimming the 
brightness of the sunlit morning. 


CHAPTER XII. 


There is such a thing as involuntary unbelief, which 
sometimes assails even Gocl’s dearest children, and dis 
turbs their peace. 


— Bishop Oxenden . 

In the hour of trial, 

Jesus, plead for me, 

Lest by base denial 
I depart from Thee; 

When Thou seest me waver, 

With a look recall, 

Nor with fear or favor 
Suffer me to fall. 

— James Montgomery . 


HE Lenten season was drawing to a close, as 



1 one afternoon in early April, Marion Martyn 
walked slowly homeward in the gathering twilight. 
She had started out some hours previous to attend 
the usual Friday lecture, and some strange fancy 
had seized upon her to walk out to the chapel in 
the suburbs of the city instead of attending the 
church nearer home; there had been a feeling of 
unrest that had lately been stirring within her, 
disturbing the calmness of her soul. A loosening 


152 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


of the old ties seemed imminent, and a great dread 
had seized her that the landmarks of her child- 
hood’s faith were about to he wiped out of exist- 
ence, and no substitute given, only a blank page 
for the long future. Again and again this dread 
thought returned, and with it a great longing for 
higher spiritual knowledge, a questioning of the 
truth that she might give a “reason for the hope 
that was in her.” And she had hurried on far 
past the busy streets into the straggling lanes 
beyond, the remembrance of the sweet country 
church of four summers ago in whose simple 
services she had found peace and joy, bringing to 
her hope of renewed happiness in her religious 
life. 

She thought of Lucy and Alice Freer, and 
smiled sadly to think that she seemed to be losing 
what they in their quiet life had gained; for Alice 
had recently fulfilled the desire of her sisters heart, 
and was a professing Christian. How long ago 
those days seemed to the young woman who 
passed swiftly along, whose fair face, and the finely 
moulded figure clad in dark blue walking suit, 
caused the few passers-by to glance more than 
once at the wearer. They little knew what con- 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


153 


flict was raging in the heart that beat tumult- 
ously beneath the rich fur cape (the day was a 
fitful one, a remnant of the cold and wind of 
April’s predecessor). 

The chapel at last reached, the girl entered 
quietly, and took a seat far back in the shadow of 
the softly colored window near the door. The 
quiet of the place soothed her, and she joined in 
the sweet service with deep yearning for the 
blessing that comes to all true worshippers. The 
short lecture was forcible and full of earnest 
simplicity — a practical talk from the lips of one 
who had known temptation and suffering in fol- 
lowing the Master’s footsteps. But Marion heard 
only the words of the text ringing in her ears: 
“Who will not suffer you to be tempted above 
that ye are able.” The words were graven on her 
heart, and the ten minutes that intervened before 
the benediction, were but a confused dream to 
her. “If God be in heaven, as I believe He is, He 
will not let me be tempted more than I can bear;” 
and this was the burden of her thought as with 
tightened lips and quickened breath, she returned 
home, and entered the sitting-room, where her 


154 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


aunt sat before the open grate in which a low fire 
burned. 

“You are late,” was that lady’s comment. 

“Yes, I have been walking,” was the brief 
reply. Her aunt must not know of the conflict, 
however sore, and the girl shivered more at the 
thought of Miss Roy’s cold triumph, than from 
the keen weather. 

“Take off your wraps, and we will have tea 
sent up to us, it is so cosy here.” 

An anxious tone was in Miss Roy’s voice, for 
she noticed Marion’s weary manner, and con- 
strained expression. Something was amiss, she 
mused, after her niece had left the room. “I 
have noticed a depression of spirits not natural to 
her; she needs a change of scene.” The elder 
woman remembered Harold Levering’s devotion, 
and although Marion had not confided in her, 
attributed the girl’s occasional moodiness to the 
separation. Like a wise woman, she awaited 
results patiently, and did not intermeddle with 
the love affairs, even of her niece. She had her 
own heart histories, and reverenced those of 
others. So when Marion returned, she simply 
said: “I’ve been thinking for some time, that 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


155 


we both needed a change, Marion. Suppose we 
take our Western trip. We can leave the city 
earlier this year. My work is over for the present, 
and we will both be benefitted by travel in a 
country new to us.” 

Marion’s face brightened, and she entered 
heartily into the plans for the journey, with an 
eagerness which delighted her aunt. In reality, 
the girl welcomed any topic of conversation that 
tended to make her oblivious of her secret misery. 
They parted early that evening, Marion pleading 
weariness; but no sooner was the door of her 
chamber closed, than she stood with wide open 
eyes, wherein lay no shadow of the longed-for 
sleep. The hour of struggle had come, and the 
soul must face its pain alone. 

Alone! that one word brought her upon her 
knees beside the bed where prayers had nightly 
risen to a watching Father. Was it all a dream, 
a delusion? Was there no Father then? Yes, 
there is a God, there is a primal cause of all 
created beings. In all ages, in all hearts, there 
dwells a conviction of a Great Spirit, a Soul from 
which man’s soul is derived, of which it is a part. 
But the Mediator, the Saviour, who only can 


156 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


atone for the sins of humanity, without whom 
the “righteous Father” would be inapproachable 
in His awful glory; was Jesus Christ a super- 
stition, a myth, a “good man,” and yet not the 
Way, the Life, the Truth, as He had Himself de- 
clared? No, falsehood cannot represent truth; 
He must be the Son of God — or nothing. 

Rocked upon a sea of doubt, tossed by the 
waves of unbelief, for one single moment there 
swept over Marion’s soul the dark sea of despair. 
With a low moan she sank farther down to the 
floor. “My God, I am forsakenl” Never but 
once had a more pitiful cry reached the Father’s 
throne — never but one, and that one cry re-echoed 
upon the desolate human heart. “My God, my 
God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” 

Into the darkness came a flood of light. 
Jesus, too, had been forsaken, with all the world’s 
sin upon Him. His human heart had cried out 
for very agony. His divine nature momentarily 
succumbed; then on wings of faith and love, the 
Holy Comforter had come, and above all human 
pain arose the one triumphant cry: “It is fin- 
ished.” What was finished? The redemption of 
mankind, her redemption from doubt and sin. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


157 


Peace came on dove-like wings, and soothed the 
exhausted soul to rest. “God is faithful, who 
will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye 
are able.” 

“We do sign her with the sign of the cross in 
token that she shall not be ashamed to confess 
Christ crucified.” “Ashamed?” never more to be 
“ashamed of Jesus!” To Marion had come the 
fiery trial of her faith, but the darkness was 
forever past; there might come in the long future, 
temptation and doubt to try anew the steadfast 
soul, but in the calm victory once gained by 
Almighty love and power, she felt secure. Jesus 
was true, let all the world be false. Trembling in 
every limb from the weakness of that terror 
which was past forever, the terror of doubting 
Him, she laid her down to rest, and soon she 
slept in peace upon her Saviour’s breast. “And 
underneath are the everlasting arms.” 

With the dawning of another day, she arose* 
and opening the window, looked out upon the 
quiet streets. A few of the world’s toilers had 
begun the day, but the great heart of the city 
still slept. She knew that over the distant eastern 
hills which were hidden from her view, the sun 


158 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


was heralding the glories of the morning's birth, 
while within her own breast, the Sun of Right- 
eousness had risen with wings of healing, for 
this new day of her spiritual life. Having com- 
pleted her simple morning toilet, Marion opened 
her writing desk, and with deliberation took 
therefrom a note book, and read over its contents. 
Tearing out two unwritten leaves, she placed 
them upon the smooth ledge of the desk; then 
two books were brought down from the shelf, 
the one, a small worn Bible which had been her 
mother's; the other, extracts from the writings 
of a well-known atheist. 

Could that man of magnificent adjectives and 
beautiful imagery but have seen the picture, the 
fair young face might have pleaded not in vain 
against the further wreck of souls for which he 
must give such awful account. With intent brow 
and earnest eye she bent to the self-imposed task 
of comparing the sentiment of the two books. 
She had often wondered at her aunt's infatuation 
for the man whose face and figure were not 
unfamiliar to their home, and whose lectures Miss 
Roy faithfully attended. It was more the atmos- 
phere of her life here, than any words of his that 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


159 


had tried Marion’s faith; for the girl had been 
quick to note in him, as in her aunt, the exalta- 
tion of self, perhaps unconscious to the infidel 
mind, but always forming its mainspring of 
thought and action. True, that in their home 
relations the key-note was not so distinctly heard, 
but is not home a part of self ? even its love may 


be idolatry. 

Bible. 

“None of us liveth unto him- 
self ” Rom xlv:7. 

‘ Who shall change our vile 
body that it may be fashioned 
likrt unto his glorious body.” 
Phil, iii: 21. 

“He that loveth his life shall 
lose it; and he that liateth his 
life in this world shall keep it 
unto life eternal.” St. John 
xii: 25. 

“And the light shineth in dark- 
ness, and the darkness compre- 
hended it not.” St. John i: 5. 

“And there shall be no night 
there; and ihev need no candle, 
neither light of t be sun; for the 
Lord God giveth them light ; and 
they shall reign for ever and 
ever.” Rev. xxii:5. 

“He being dead, yet speak- 
eth.” Heb. ii : 9. 

“Let not your hearts be 
troubled, ye believe in God be- 
lieve also in Me.” 

“In my Father’s house are 
many mansions; if it were not 
so, I would have told you. I go 
t ) prepare a place for you.” St. 
John xiv: 1, 2. 

“I am crucifl d with Cbrist; 
nevertheless I live; yet not I, 
but Christ liveth in me; and the 
life which I now live l live by 
faith in the Son of God, who 
loved me, and gave himself for 
me.” Gal. ii : 20. 


Infidelity. 

“I am the sole proprietor of 
myself.” 

“For whether in mid sea or 
among the breakers of the far- 
ther shore, a wreck must mark 
at last the end of each and all.” 

“While yet in love with life, 
and raptured with the world, he 
passed to silence and pathetic 
dust.” 


“He climbed the heights and 
left all superstition far below, 
while on his forehead fell the 
golden dawning of a grander 
day.” (What grander day can 
dawn for a wreck that marks the 
end of all?) 


“From the voiceless lips of the 
unreplying dead there comes no 
word ; but in the night of death 
hope fees a star, and listening 
love can hear the rustle of a 
wing.” 

(Can pathetic dust have wings?) 


“Life is a narrow vale between 
the cold and barren peaks of 
two eternities.” 

“We strive in vain to look be- 
yond the heights.” 


160 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


The breakfast hour interrupted Marion’s par- 
allelisms, and leaving the papers upon her desk, 
she ran lightly down stairs, overtaking her aunt 
in the hall below. That lady kissed her niece 
affectionately, saying, with a pleased voice, “Have 
you been dreaming of our western travels to bring 
such roses to your cheeks?” Inwardly she com- 
mented that Marion’s lit of depression was but 
transitory, and hoped the memory of Levering 
would fade in the prospects of new joys. 

And Marion was saying softly in her heart, 
with a wave of pitying tenderness: U I can’t 
believe that the man who wrote those words is in 
his heart an infidel.” 

How little we know of the inmost thoughts of 
those we love ! Miss Roy, returning from break- 
fast before her niece, happened to go through the 
room, and the papers caught her observant eye. 
“The Bible, — Infidelity !” The words riveted her 
attention. Almost unconsciously she took in 
their meaning; and as she read, the glamour 
cleared momentarily, and for the first time she 
realized how truly had been the burden of her 
life-song: u I am the sole proprietor of myself.” 
The vague unrest of the beautifully worded sen- 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


161 


tences of her ideal paled before the calm truth of 
the Word of God. And it was in this channel 
that the girl’s thoughts had been running; the old 
bent of mind had showed itself, but in an unex- 
pected aspect. Very slowly and thoughtfully 
Miss Roy passed on into her own room. 

Meanwhile Marion was in the parlor with 
Professor Schmidt, who still came occasionally to 
supervise his former pupil’s musical progress. He 
was proud of her achievements in that line, and 
would often sit and listen for an hour to the 
sweet melodies brought forth by her light, firm 
touch upon the keys. Expression is the soul of 
music, and Marion threw her very being into the 
production of excpiisite harmonies, it was the 
chief pleasure of her life. 

“I always feel nearer to heaven when I listen 
to divine music,” she remarked, as the last chords 
of Beethoven’s “Pensee Divine” died into silence. 

U I would give much for your faith, Mees 
Martyn,” and the little man sighed deeply. “There 
was a time when I, too, believed in your God and 
your Bible.” 

“You must not think that I n^iy never have 
doubts,” answered Miss Martyn; “but oh ! Pro- 


162 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


fessor, if you would only trust God; for He is 
faithful, however faithless we may be.” 

“Remember me in your prayers, child; per- 
haps they may be heard when mine are not.” 

“There is one prayer we can both use without 
hypocrisy, ‘Lord, I believe, help thou my unbe- 
lief !’ was her parting remark, uttered in a low, 
shy tone as the Professor took his leave. He had 
previously bidden Miss Roy adieu, and wished them 
a prosperous journey. 

“Joy go with you,” croaked the parrot, as the 
Professor’s short, stout figure disappeared in the 
hall. 

“Is that you, Wretch?” said the object of the 
bird’s aversion, showing his bald head again at 
the door. “ I forgot you were there — good-bye !” 

“Get along with you !” shouted Wretch, flap- 
ping his wings. The parrot had been so nick- 
named by Professor Schmidt, and the name was 
as odious to the bird as was the giver of it. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


I was a wandering sheep, 

I did not love the fold, 

I did not love my Shepherd’s voice, 

I would not be controlled. 

I was a wayward child, 

I did not love my home; 

I did not love my Father’s voice, 

I loved afar to roam. 

The Shepherd sought His sheep, 

The Father sought His child; 

They followed me o’er vale and hill, 

O’er desert waste and wild; 

They found me nigh to death, 

Famished, and faint, and worn; 

They bound me with the bands of love, 

They saved the wandering one. 

— Rev. Horatius Bonar. 

I N a certain club-house in New York City, a 
young man sat looking moodily out of the 
window. The morning paper lay unread upon 
the table beside him ; outside a fine mist shrouded 
the street in gloom, the passers-by appeared as 
dark objects, of which the most conspicuous 


164 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


feature was the nondescript umbrella. The ele- 
ments were in sympathy with Claude Wilton’s 
state of mind that September morning. For the 
past eighteen months, the young man had led a 
life of wild gaiety, which had brought upon him 
his father’s displeasure, and bade fair to estrange 
him from his home. 

Mrs. Wilton’s cheery face had recently grown 
sadder, and lines of anxious care had made their 
appearance upon the smooth brow of happier 
years; for Claude was her favorite child. For 
him, no sacrifice could be too great, no devotion 
too tender. The mother’s heart went out in deep 
yearning over the wayward son. When he had 
finished his law course, and entered upon a pro- 
fession in which his heart was not placed, a re- 
action from the old life had come. He soon fell 
in with a set of young men, wilder and more 
dissolute than he had, at first, any idea; and 
afterwards, for very shame, he could not break 
off from them. Gay parties, late hours, and 
intemperate habits had told upon him, and at 
twenty-one the hearty laugh his friends had been 
wont to hear, was changed to the smile of cynic- 
ism. Claude was as unhappy as a man could well 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


165 


be ; for his inmost soul revolted at the life he led, 
and night after night there was a secret struggle 
with his higher nature. Moral and upright 
he still was, outwardly, and no clouded breath 
dared touch his honor; but he knew that his 
high standard was lowered, that the very associa- 
tions into which he was daily thrown, tended to 
drag him down, and ere long he, too, would be as 
they, beings, not men. 

His love for his mother was still a powerful 
influence for good. How often had she shielded 
him from his father’s unsympathetic harshness 
in boyhood days. And, later on, when Claude 
should have been her stay and joy, she had used 
her own private income, small as it was, to pay 
off the debts which he had thoughtlessly incurred. 
Had they come to his father’s knowledge, there 
would have ensued a stormy scene. So far, the 
mother had warded off the crisis which must 
come all too soon. 

This course of action was not altogether 
honorable towards the husband and father, and 
Claude should have insisted upon no concealment 
of the truth; but, unfortunately, Mr. Wilton 
was one of the Elis, who, while attending to the 


166 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


services of the temple with scrupulous devotion, 
neglect the spiritual welfare of their children. 
His study was a place of withdrawal from the 
cares of his family to the less perplexing, because 
less human, society of his books. His children 
knew better than to disturb his solitude by bring- 
ing him the confidences of their lives. 

As has been the experience of many another 
man of the sacerdotal family, there w T as a prospect 
that the future would bring him the bitter knowl- 
edge of alienation from those upon whom he 
should lean in his old age; and the awakening 
might be, alas! too late. 

Claude Wilton’s thoughts upon that Septem- 
ber morning had wandered to the past. Again he 
saw before him, Marion’s earnest face, and heard 
the ring of her voice: 

“The foundation of truth, the mainspring of 
all true manliness, must have its source within 
your own breast.” 

How far had he wandered from the ways of 
truth ? Could he ever again look with the old 
fearless candor into those searching eyes P Had 
he been false to himself, to his friends, to his 
God? U I will arise and go to my Father.” He 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


167 


thought of his earthly father’s stern judgment; 
he could almost picture to himself that unemo- 
tional face, with its air of abstraction from 
worldly things, of remoteness from the sins and 
follies of the younger son. “ I will arise and go 
to my Father.” What did it mean ? It meant a 
heavenly Father, always tender, merciful, and 
true, u always more ready to hear than we to pray.” 

The mist without seemed to have entered 
through the closed windows and filled the room; 
the fresh print of the Times swam before his 
eyes, and, though none saw the act of prayer, the 
pitying Father heard the vow registered by that 
repentant heart. 

Across the room sat a man in clerical dress, 
who, every now and then during the previous 
hour, had glanced hesitatingly over the journal in 
his hand to where the younger man was seated, 
his back partly turned towards the clergyman. 

John Seymour had recognized young Wilton 
when the latter entered the club house, but there 
was a look upon Claude’s face which forbade any 
overtures of friendship; indeed, he had not 
noticed who was in the room, so absorbed was he 
in his own thoughts. 


168 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


As the moments passed in absolute silence, 
and Claude still sat motionless, John Seymour 
fought his battle too. He had heard of the 
young man’s wild career, and felt a pity for the 
wasted talents of Marion’s friend; but he had 
never seen Claude at his best, and knew little of 
him beyond the gay pleasure seeker. 

“Why should I seek to rescue him at the 
peril of incurring his dislike, and setting me 
down as a sanctimonious parson, knowing nothing 
of youth’s temptations P Could I make him 
understand that I have felt what he is feeling, 
and that I do not approve of altogether with- 
drawing from the world— as if God meant us 
forever to eat the bread of sorrow — he would not 
believe me, he would only laugh, and go on his 
way. And if he should reform, is it improbable 
that he will win the prize for which I long — one 
woman’s love? He is not worthy of her; it 
would simply be giving her up to one who could 
not appreciate her. What am I thinking of, oh, 
wretch that I am! to place any human love 
before the love of God, the salvation of an im- 
mortal soul! God help us both!” 

Claude Wilton rose from his seat, firm resolve 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


169 


written upon his countenance. The eyes of the 
two men met, and instantly their hands were 
clasped in cordial pressure. By some unknown 
sympathy they seemed to read each other’s hearts, 
and their better natures conquered. True-heart- 
edness shone in their answering gaze. 

“ I saw you enter, but feared to disturb you,” 
were John Seymour’s first words. 

“I am glad to meet you here,” Claude an- 
swered. This was a friend in need ! 

“I often come in on my free days, Mondays, 
for instance. I like to keep up with my friends 
who frequent the place, and it is a restful change 
from parochial work. By the way, won’t you 
come and take luncheon with me some day this 
week? say day after to-morrow, Wednesday?” 

Claude hesitated one moment — wouldn’t the 
other fellows laugh at him? then said resolutely: 
“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Seymour, I 
will certainly be on hand.” 

Bat the luncheon party was not destined to 
take place. As the two men left the room, a 
messenger met them. 

“Mr. Claude Wilton, is it not, sir?” 

“Yes, do you want me?” 


170 


A CHILD OF THE -COVENANT. 


“ This is for you, sir, I promised to hand it in 
person.” 

The note contained a single sentence: “Your 
mother is dying.” 

“My God! let me go quickly!” and Claude 
dashed into the street, leaving the paper in Mr. 
Seymour’s extended hand. It was too true; over- 
anxiety had brought on a recurrence of heart 
trouble, and Mrs. Wilton did not live to see the 
son for whom her latest breath was a prayer. 

“Tell him I love him, and that God is merci- 
ful,” was the last message for Claude. Many 
former ones he had passed by unheeded, but this 
one was burned into his heart as with a red-hot 
iron, and followed him through all his after life. 
Never again the ringing laugh she loved to hear! 
but remorse and repentance; and later on, God’s 
smile shining in the face of the man who in 
those few short hours of anguish left boyhood far 
behind. In the year that followed, he bent to his 
profession with an eagerness ill-concealing the 
inward sorrow, and even his father had no fault 
to find. Claude learned in those days to pity his 
father, so helpless in the sudden blow which had 
befallen him, in the bereavement of the one 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


171 


being whose unchanging brightness had for 
twenty-five years filled his home; unconsciously 
to both, the estranged son and father were drawn 
to each other by their common grief, and came 
nearer to understanding one another than they 
had ever thought possible to do. Maud, brave 
little maiden, tried to keep the house bright for 
mother’s sake, and her sixteen years grew grave 
beneath the weight of household cares. 

The following spring, Jessica and Frank were 
married quietly in the dear old church at New- 
berg, and for a time lived at Dr. Lynn’s for the 
only daughter could ill be spared; then the wan- 
dering life began, and first at one station, then 
another, Jessica’s sweet face became known. 
Often, too, when Frank was ordered on some 
distant cruise, the thought of her devotion, the 
memory of home, was an anchor for the sailor’s 
heart. 

And Marion Martyn, in the far West, heard 
of the changes with alternate tears and smiles. 
Tears for the friend departed, and for those who 
mourned her loss; smiles of joy and thankfulness 
that Frank and Claude were saved from the 
breakers that bound the shores of youth. She 


172 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


had seen the great cities of the west, teeming 
with life, and rich in magnificent public buildings 
and palatial residences; she had travelled among 
the wild mountains, and had drank of famous 
mineral waters; and, dearest memory of all! she 
had looked upon the Mountain of the Holy Cross. 
There, upon the mountain-side it lay, stretching 
out its arms of snow; fitting does it seem that the 
country discovered with a prayer, should lift on 
high the emblem of the cross! Her health and 
spirits had been greatly refreshed by this varied 
life of the past two years, and if at times she felt 
that there was something wanting to make her 
happiness complete, she put aside the thought 
with a calmness which showed where lay her 
highest love — in the God of the fatherless. Even 
in their wanderings she found time for reading, 
and Miss Roy was a valuable assistant in the 
literary line; so the girl’s mind was stored with a 
fund of knowledge which kept up its healthy 
tone, and left small opportunity for useless long- 
ing. 

Not that Marion had no dreams for the 
future; every young woman must think deeply of 
the possibilities of life; every true woman has 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


173 


born in her a love for home and its joys; but 
happy is she, who, while realizing the rich bles- 
sings of an ideal married life, can yet dare to 
brave the loneliness of a future devoid of near 
family ties. Numbers of unmarried women, and 
men, too, there are, who have missed the love of 
early years, and yet are to-day filling a wider 
sphere of action and of usefulness than they could 
otherwise have done. The world is coming to 
realize that while the life of the family with its 
tender ties, must be the saving bond of society, 
there is yet an individual life of self-sacrifice and 
holiness, attained only when the soul can alone 
draw near its Maker, without dependence upon any 
other love in the universe of God. 

Marion’s association with her aunt was pecu- 
liarly fortunate, in the fact that she thus found 
out for herself what woman can accomplish, if all 
her powers are well directed. She felt the lack of 
Christly motive in her aunt’s desire to achieve 
greatness for her own and her family’s renown; 
but, on the other hand, she could but admire Miss 
Roy’s perseverance, and splendidly trained mind. 
Of late, too, her aunt rarely spoke slightingly of 
religion as she used to do; on the contrary, there 


174 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


was a gentle deference to Marion’s feelings which 
touched the younger woman, and called forth a 
responsive gratitude. 

Miss Adelaide Roy had never forgotten the 
parallelisms: U I am sole proprietor of myself,” 
and, “No man liveth unto himself.” She won- 
dered often that Marion had escaped an influence 
of which she, with all her wit and wisdom, had 
felt the subtle weight. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“Veni, Creator Spiritus. v 

O NE October morning, John Seymour, crossing 
the Brooklyn park as he loved to do on his 
u free Mondays,” heard his name hastily called, 
and, turning, recognized Claude Wilton coming 
toward him. A cordial hand clasp and exchange 
of greeting followed. Although the two men 
had seen but little of one another during the past 
year, there existed between them a friendship 
destined to be lifelong. Claude’s face showed 
traces of the crisis through which he had passed; 
and the resolute glance of his eye, the thoughtful 
manner, the more earnest voice, all revealed 
development of character. 

“I was hoping to see you here,” he remarked, 
as they walked slowly onward. “Dr. Thornton 
told me you usually came this way on Mondays.” 

“I am more than glad to see you, Wilton. A 
pressure of work has prevented me from looking 


176 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


you up since my return to the city last month, 
but I have thought often of you.” 

“Perhaps we may yet work on the same lines,” 
the younger man began, hesitatingly. 

“Am I right in inferring that you contem- 
plate entering the ministry?” asked Mr. Seymour. 

“I have but recently made the decision; in 
fact, it is that which brought me in search of 
you. I felt the need of your counsel. Seymour, 
my life for two years past fills me with remorse. 
I feel the need of a more earnest purpose for the 
future. This I could, of course, find in continu- 
ing my former studies with renewed vigor; but 
something within impels me on to take my stand 
in the ranks of the Church. I believe it to be 
the voice of God’s Holy Spirit speaking to my 
inmost soul. But oh! my friend, I feel my 
unworthiness for this holy calling, I cannot trust 
myself. Tell me, you who are so much farther 
advanced in the Christian life, if I rightly inter- 
pret the call.” 

Deeply moved by his young friend’s words, 
Seymour motioned to a seat under the trees near 
by; and, before answering, gave himself up to a 
moment’s silent prayer. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


177 


“Thank God,” he said at last, “that you do 
not trust yourself. You are right to consider 
well the step you contemplate taking, my dear 
friend. I believe God is in truth calling you. I 
would I could reveal to you the joy of a conse- 
crated service; but this each soul must experience 
for itself, and it comes only with complete sur- 
render of self and of worldly ambition. The 
words of Thomas a Kempis come to my mind: 
l My son, oftentimes the fire burneth, but the 
flame ascendeth not without smoke. So likewise,, 
the desires of some men burn towards heavenly 
things, and yet they are not free from the tempta- 
tions of carnal things.’ It is for us t@ remember 
that each temptation overcome, each holy purpose 
welcomed into our lives, leaves us stronger to 
meet future trials. No man can decide for 
another such a question as this which lies before 
you.” 

“I have decided,” was the firm reply; “and I 
ask only your word of welcome.” 

“It is already yours. I thank God for such a 
co-worker. Truly, as in the days of our Lord on 
earth, the field is ever white to the harvest.” 

“ What I long to do,” said Claude, eagerly, “is- 


178 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


to work among the poor of this city. I want to 
be in touch with all classes. I have felt the 
misery of moral degredation, and would give my 
life to be counted worthy to uplift one soul from 
the m ire .’ 1 

“What does your father say ? 17 asked his com- 
panion abruptly. 

“He is pleased. Seymour, my father could 
never understand a nature like mine; but he has 
always wished for this, and I feel glad that I can 
now conscientiously comply with his wishes . 71 

There was a winning simplicity in the speak- 
er’s manner which touched the older man’s heart. 
He remembered that one short year ago he did 
not dream of such depths in Claude Wilton’s 
nature, as had been revealed to him to-day. 

“Come to me often,” he said in parting. “By 
the way, did you see my aunt this morning?” 

“Yes, I saw Mrs. Thornton. She expects 
Marion — Miss Martyn, in a few weeks. I wonder 
what she will say to find me a theologue?” and 
Claude’s face brightened to something of its boy- 
ish look as he walked away. 

Seymour started in the opposite direction; 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


179 


then, as if by an afterthought he retraced his 
steps, and seated himself again under the trees. 

He leaned one arm upon the back of the iron 
bench, and gave himself up to reverie. 

u The time for self-renunciation is at hand — 
or better say, self-effacement. I see my way 
more clearly now. l Veni, Creator Spiritus, 1 
comes with a deeper meaning to the spiritual ear. 
I would be free from every earthly tie — not like 
the monks of old to tread the cloistered cell, 
from the world’s temptations shielded; but 
rather, as my Blessed Saviour, to tread the solitary 
way among these crowded streets; or, sweeter 
still, upon the mountain side to seek the wandering 
sheep. Other men may know the joy of human 
companionship in the home; but for me, there 
must nothing divide my love with God. I can 
the better sympathize with human happiness, and 
human loneliness, in that I have renounced the 
one and felt the other. 

“ ‘In the secret of His presence, how my soul 
delights to hide, 

Oh, how precious are the lessons which I learn 
at Jesus’ side.’ 

U 1 should like to know the writer of those lines. 
They tell me he is one who has passed through 


180 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


the refining furnaces; he has well learned life’s 
holiest lesson — repose in the midst of turmoil.” 

As he thus mused, half aloud, the speaker’s 
face was pale with intensity of emotion; but in 
his eyes was kindled the light of the “celestial 
fire.” 


CHAPTER XY. 


Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be 
As more of heaven in each we see ; 

Some softening gleam of love and. prayer 
Shall dawn on every cross and care. 

— Keble. 

I N one of the rooms of the Hotel Leland, in 
Chicago, Marion Martyn sat with an open 
letter in her hand. It was from Harold Levering. 
Years had passed since they had parted from 
each other — years in which the girl had become a 
woman; but there was less of outward change 
than of inward development. Still the same 
calm brow above the trustful eyes; the soft, 
waving hair; the clear, white complexion. 

The contour of the face was more rounded, 
the lips redder even than formerly. And Harold 
was unchanged; this letter, written in far Eastern 
lands, breathed still his changeless love. In all 
the previous ones, filled as they were with 


182 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


accounts of voyages, and strange peoples and 
countries, there had been an undertone of deep 
devotion, unmistakable, though unexpressed; and 
Marion admired the manly dignity which feared 
to obtrude his love upon her notice. Now it 
seemed that he could no longer bear the pain of 
indecision. 

U I will know my fate, cost what it may; and 
whether or npt you return my love, I shall bless 
the day when I first saw your face, and looked 
into your soulful eyes ” 

Marion let fall the letter, and gazed thought- 
fully at the wine-colored chrysanthemums in the 
tall vase near by, as if in their glowing blossoms 
she might read her destiny. 

Could she love Harold Levering as he deserved? 
If she married him, would the remembrance of 
any other face disturb her peace? He would 
give her unquestioning love, and shield her 
womanhood with the strength of his pure man- 
hood. 

u Oh! I dare not risk our happiness. Yet, if I 
were his wife, no power on earth could turn me 
from him. I would endeavor to make his home 
happy.” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


183 


With her face buried in her hands, she sat 
motionless. Why did other eyes than Harold’s 
come between her thoughts of him — eyes of clear 
brown that had looked tenderly into hers that 
morning of her twentieth birthday, as she had 
come down the stairs and found their owner 
waiting for her. 

She resolutely banished the thought, and 
attempted to write an answer to Harold’s letter. 

u Bah! am I so weak? I, who thought my- 
self strong among women.” With set lips she 
wrote the final words of dismissal; even as she 
wrote, it cost her a heart-pang to think that 
there was an end to the friendly letters which 
had so long been a part of her life, but she 
realized that henceforth silence would be wisest 
for them both. 

It seemed to her the cutting off of the last tie 
which bound her to the bright days of youth. 
When she had finished writing, she entered the 
adjoining room, and with that yearning for sym- 
pathy which comes at times even to the bravest 
heart, told her aunt all concerning Harold. 

“And you do not love him? Think well, my 


184 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


child, before you take the final step. Love like 
that does not often come twice in a woman’s life.” 

“Auntie, I do not love him as he should be 
loved; and I could not care for that roving life.” 

Miss Roy laid down her pen, and regarded her 
niece attentively. 

“ I understand you, Marion. You have reached 
a crisis in life where aimlessness no longer satis- 
fies. You have ambitions. Tell me of them. 
But first answer me one question. Is there any 
other who stands before Harold in your affections?” 

Marion hesitated. 

“No one whom I have a right to love, Aunt 
Adelaide.” 

The keen eyes of the elder woman softened 
perceptibly as she listened to the answer. 

“You are wise, then, to seek some field for 
your energies. I forget, child, that you are a 
woman now — twenty-four next birthday, is it 
not so? I should have anticipated this in one of 
your nature. But how can I do without you, 
Marion?” 

“I should not care to leave you, Auntie; but 
we might settle somewhere, and I could help you 
make a home.” 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


185 


There was a wistfulness in he* voice which 
touched an answering chord in Miss Roy’s heart. 
Had she not years ago felt this same desire for 
work? and she had found its fulfilment in her 
writing. 

“ I will consider your proposition, Marion. 
Your heart is as true as steel, and you have a 
clear head on those young shoulders. We shall 
see what can be done.” 

“Remember my one talent, Auntie. I should 
like to put my music to a practical use.” 

“How would you like to go to Germany to 
take a finishing course ? Would that do for a year 
or two?” 

“Don’t be angry with me, Aunt Adelaide. I 
want to do some special work among the poor, 
and, at the same time, be with you, and help you 
in your work.” 

“Yes, I might give you some employment 
there. But you do not care especially for scien- 
tific studies, Marion.” 

“I can learn to care,” replied the girl, a flash 
of the Roy fire in her eyes. 

“I believe you could make yourself do any- 
thing,” was the laughing rejoinder; “but it is a 


186 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


bobby of mine that one should develop whatever 
talent she can use to best advantage. What is 
it?” she asked, seeing Marion was about to speak 
further. 

u It is the children who appeal to me,” was 
the eager answer. “I have seen them sometimes 
in my visits to the Hull Settlement with Miss 
Craighill. You know she is studying up the 
question with a view to joining a College Settle- 
ment in New York. Several times I have been 
with her to the Afternoons for Women; once or 
twice I played for them, and they seemed to like 
it. And often, coming out into the streets, we 
have met little children crowding around, some 
of them so pitiful looking and uncared for; but 
with something of child-glory left in their faces.” 

u And you would like to take up that line of 
work?” asked Miss Roy, more moved than she 
cared to show. 

“Yes; I have enough to live upon, with econ- 
omy; and mv music can be made a help in teach- 
ing them. I want to study kindergarten this- 
winter.” 

“Child, I shall not place any obstacle in the 
way if your happiness depends upon this work. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


187 


Once I looked for a different life for you — you 
might yet be a brilliant social leader; but I see 
your tastes are not in that line, and I do not urge 
it. Still, I would have you count the cost. 
Remember, there will be the sacrifice of many 
luxuries and pleasures you hitherto enjoyed; and 
these people you will work among— do not expect 
appreciation from them. The majority prefer 
filth to cleanliness, degradation to refinement. 
But the children — yes; they appeal to the most 
cynical. We will go to New York for the winter, 
and take rooms convenient for your work. God 
bless you, Marion.” 

Marion looked up in surprise to hear the rev- 
erent words from lips that heretofore had scoffed 
at sacred things. 

Following her heart’s impulse, she whispered 
softly: “God grant you peace!” 

“Ah, child! that is a strange word to me. It 
is hard to say it. Pray for me, little one; I can- 
not pray.” And Marion, returning to her own 
room, fell upon her knees and thanked God that 
Aunt Adelaide was searching for the God who 
is ever near to those who seek. 

Before taking up a course of study, Marion 


188 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


paid the promised visit to Brooklyn. One bright 
November morning found her on the eastward- 
bound train. The last day of travel brought 
back vividly to Marion the Newberg home and 
its associations. After passing Albany, and turn- 
ing southward, the beautiful banks of the Hudson 
seemed familiar ground. 

What powerful influences were those old 
associations in her life! yet, in a certain sense, 
she seemed the veriest stranger to the place from 
which she and her former playmates had gone 
out into other homes. 

Miss Roy went on to Washington to arrange 
her business affairs while Marion stayed in Brook- 
lyn. The evening after her arrival in Brooklyn 
found Marion seated with her friends in their cosy 
sitting-room . The folding doors between this room 
and the parlor were thrown open, and a coal fire 
burned in the grate. 

Dr. Thornton had just asked Marion for some 
music while he smoked, and she had risen to 
comply with his request. 

u If you will smoke the old rose-pipe, as you 
used to do,” she began laughingly, wdien the 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


189 - 


opening of the hall door caused her to look up. 
Mr. Seymour entered immediately. 

“I see you have resumed your former occupa- 
tion of assisting Uncle Hugh’s evening medita- 
tions,” he said, advancing to meet her. “ Welcome 
back to Brooklyn; but please don’t let me inter- 
rupt the music. Will you play for me the 
‘Pensee Divine,’ I used to love?” 

As the last chords died into silence, Marion 
turned toward him : 

“Now tell me of everyone, and of the new 
memorial window to my father,” she said, 
brightly. 

“It is very beautiful,” he replied. “I want 
Aunt Rena to bring you to see it while you are 
here.” 

“The figure of the Beloved Disciple, is it not?” 

“Yes; a fine piece of workmanship it is, too. 
And you want to hear about everyone? I sup- 
pose that includes our Wilton friends. I saw 
Claude to-day, and he says he will be over with 
his sister the first opportunity. He is studying 
hard. You know of his determination to enter 
the ministry?” 

“Yes; I am so thankful; for he will throw all 


190 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


liis energies into the work. He has splendid 
capacity, undeveloped yet, perhaps.” 

“You will find him changed for the better. 
His mother's death was a terrible shock, but it 
aroused him as nothing else could.” 

“Poor Claude! he was devoted to her as a boy. 
It will seem strange if he has lost his merry 
ways.” 

“It is the same nature, with a finer edge,” 
remarked Seymour. “When he settles down to 
hard work, he will be a power for good.” 

“I am very glad,” Marion answered; “the city 
has need of consecrated men.” 

“And women, too.” 

“Women must occupy a second place.” 

“Does that make their work less noble?” he 
asked, gently. Then, without awaiting a reply, 
he added: “My aunt tells me you are thinking 
of settling in New York.” 

“My aunt, Miss Roy, has consented to my 
studying kindergarten. You see, I am not con- 
tent to be an idler, simply because I am a woman. 
You men have the problem of a life work sooner 
solved. Is it not so?” 

“There was a time,” he answered, slowly, 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


191 


" when I could not freely say, 'Lead, Kindly Light,’ 
and trust its holy guidance.” Then, with a sud- 
den abruptness, he raised his searching eyes to 
hers, and asked: "What would you think of a 
man who voluntarily resigned earth’s sweetest 
blessings, that, according to his poor interpreta- 
tion of the wisdom of such a course, he might 
more truly devote himself to his life work?” 

It was hard for Marion to meet that steadfast 
look without betraying the emotion of her heart. 
That keen perception, which was hers by nature, 
led her to recognize instantly the inner meaning 
of his words; but all that was noblest in her rose 
to meet the test. 

"Should I meet one capable of so noble a 
sacrifice, 1 would count it highest honor to be 
called his friend” she answered, bravely. 

"I thank you for those words; they will live 
in my heart. And now, dea r friend, I must say 
good-bye. If I can help you in any way in your 
work, let me know. 

Ere she realized the parting he was gone. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“Florio mio.” 



HE kindergarten rooms, in a large Parish 


1 House in the heart of New York, were teem- 
ing with life, one Saturday morning in February. 
Outside, cold winds were blowing, and the thinly 
clad children of the tenement district pushed for- 
ward eagerly as they reached the outer door, and 
felt the warm air within. 

Miss Craighill, the head worker, stood wel- 
coming the children as they entered; while 
Marion Martyn, at the other end of the long 
room, was talking earnestly to some of the older 
girls, who acted as assistants. 

Two years had passed since she began her 
course of training; years filled with invigorating 
work. 

Her enthusiasm and her gentle sympathy 
brought her quickly in touch with those whom 
she sought to aid. With her co-worker and 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


193 


adviser, Miss Craigliill, there had been a happy 
union of aims and tastes. 

It was a real pleasure to watch the little faces, 
often bearing the marks of want and cruelty, 
light up with childish joy at sight of toys, which 
were to them a revelation of beauty, and an 
unfailing source of wonder. 

The little ones were Marion’s specialty, and 
it was with a happy face she turned toward them 
as Miss Craigliill took her place at the long table. 
In a moment Marion was surrounded by some 
twenty-five little tots, some of whom tugged at 
her skirts, laughing gleefully. How tenderly she 
quieted them, bidding them take their accus- 
tomed places. 

“See! we will learn to set tables to-day. Isn’t 
this a pretty tea-set P — just the size I used to 
have at my dolly’s tea-parties when I was a little 

girl." 

Several neatly covered boxes, arranged in a 
row, served as tables, and very eagerly the chil- 
dren took turns in laying the cover and placing 
the tiny plates, knives and forks, cups and saucers 
as they were directed. 

“Well done, Sallie!” her teacher exclaimed, as 


194 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


a demure little girl of five years went through 
her lesson without a mistake. 

When the time for singing came, Marion went 
to the organ and played, while the children 
marched around the room to the music. The 
songs were so simple and pretty that the tiniest 
child could join in them. 

As Marion played, she noticed a tiny face 
pressed against the window near her. It was a 
pale face, with a setting of very black curls; and 
there was a look of intent listening upon it. 

“ That must be Florio, the little Italian boy I 
heard one of the children speak of not long ago.” 
She looked again, but the child, seeing himself 
observed, slipped quickly from his post. 

In the bustle of departure Marion forgot the 
waif; but, hurrying out into the frosty air, half 
an hour later, she almost stumbled over a folorn 
little figure on the doorstep. The child looked 
up startled, but the pathetic brown eyes had done 
their work. 

u Don’t be frightened. You are Florio, are 
you not?” 

He nodded assent. 

“Ah! you are cold. Poor child! Why do you 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


195 


sit here in the cold? Why did you not come 
into the warm house with the other children?” 

Florio made no reply to these questions, but 
moved nearer to the speaker, as if unable to resist 
the magnetism of her presence. 

“Are you the angel who took her away?” he 
asked suddenly, an eager light in his eyes. 

“ Dear child, I am not an angel, only a woman. 
But who has gone away?” 

“They said an angel took her — my mother, 
you know;” and his voice grew confidential. “I 
went to look for her, and heard the music, and 
saw you at the window with the sunshine in your 
face, like hers.” 

“ Poor lonely boy ! Is there no one else at 
home ?” and she glanced doubtfully toward the 
Italian quarter. 

u My father beats me sometimes when he comes 
home. Mother said he was so tired; and told me 
not to cry. A man must never cry — ” here the 
tiny form was proudly drawn up to its full height. 

“What does your father do all day?” asked 
Marion. 

“Oh, he grinds the organ, and the monkey 
dances and I sing; but we do not get many pen- 


196 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


nies now, and it is so cold all day. I ran away to 
look for her — ” there was almost a sob in the 
brave little voice. 

“You must come with me now, and show me 
where you live, and maybe I can help you. The 
angels have taken her where it is never cold, and 
she will not be hungry any more. Do you know 
about God, little Florio ? I think He sent you to 
me to-day.” They were now walking rapidly 
toward the Italian quarter, the child’s hand tightly 
clasped in hers. 

“She told me God was in heaven — up there — 
but it is so far away,” he whispered. 

As they neared Florio’s home, or rather the 
place that gave poor shelter to its crowded ten- 
ants, a short, ill-favored man, carrying a heavy 
street organ, came toward them. 

At sight of the boy, the lowering look deep- 
ened in his restless eyes. He was about to speak; 
but something in the face of the young woman 
caught and riveted his gaze, and he mumbled 
under his breath as he held out his hand to the 
monkey, who ran and climbed upon his shoulder. 

“I found him looking for his mother,” she 
simply said, and watched the effect of her words 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


197 


upon the father. To her relief, the man’s count- 
enance changed instantly, “He has a heart,” she 
said to herself. The organ-grinder in his tattered 
garments looked at her and said in broken English : 

“He no find her. She gone, my Italia — to 
where the sun shines. The North it was too cold. 
She loved the sunshine.” 

“Will you let me take him home awhile and 
give him warm clothes and food ? I should like 
to hear him sing, too.” 

“ He sing now,” the man replied, a suspicious 
light in his eyes. 

“He is so cold and tired. I promise to bring 
him back to-day.” 

“No, no, you take him away. I make no 
more pennies, and we starve.” 

“Then will you let him come to the school 
and hear the music on Saturdays with the other 
children? And here,” she added, “take this 
card to the number written and they will give you 
both a warm dinner to-day. Do you understand ? 
Good-bye, Florio, come again to the window and 
see me.” She dared not give them money, know- 
ing nothing of the father’s habits, but all that 
week Florio’ s eyes haunted her, and she felt eager 


198 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


to see the child again. The following Saturday 
morning, she watched anxiously, as one by one, 
or in groups of twos and threes, the children 
entered the rooms. To-day was “kitchen” day, 
when she would show the little ones how to cook 
tiny dishes, and she could imagine Florio’s intel- 
ligent face alive with interest as he watched the 
process. But he did not come, and she ceased to 
look for him as the morning hours passed. It 
was just as she began to play the accompaniment 
to the merry kitchen song, that she saw the door 
pushed gently open and Florio stood silently on the 
threshold, the monkey by his side. 

“ Jacko ?” he asked, pointing to his four- 
footed companion. 

“Marion shook her head; then, seeing the dis- 
appointed look on the child’s face, she went 
towards him, saying: “Can Jacko keep quiet ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” replied the child, “ Jacko mio, 
mind his master.” 

So Jacko mio was placed in a corner to watch 
the children, and though he became wildly excited 
several times, never moved from his appointed 
post until Florio was ready to go home. Marion 
had brought with her a little overcoat for Florio 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


199 


to wear, and the boy’s soft eyes were filled with 
gratitude as he started away with Jacko. 

A year passed, and again it was February. 
The previous summer, through the benevolence 
of a noble-hearted woman who was interested in 
the work, a farm-house was rented in the country, 
some three hours’ ride from New York, and vol- 
unteers among the regular workers gave a part of 
their vacation to looking after the children, who 
were sent down in relays for a week’s stay. Dr. 
Thornton, one of the managers of the Fresh Air 
Fund, felt a deep interest in Marion’s “project,” 
as he called it; and during the month when she 
was on duty, made frequent trips to the place. 
It was upon one of these visits that he first saw 
Florio and Jacko. 

“ I have fallen in love with your proteges, but 
I didn’t know you had four-footed guests.” 

“ They are inseparable,” laughed Marion, 
motioning to Florio, who responded to her call 
with alacrity. 

U I want you to sing for this gentleman, 
Florio mio,” she said, using the soft Italian word 
she had caught from him. And Florio sang. 

u He should be a chorister. There is only the 


200 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


white surplice needed to complete the picture of 
an angel,” remarked the Doctor. 

“I had thought of it,” answered Marion, “but 
he is utterly untrained. Only his love for me 
keeps him in bounds here. But how he does 
enjoy the freedom of the country, and Jacko is 
very obedient. 

u The poor father! he could never be anything 
but an organ-grinder; the life has taken too deep 
a hold upon him; but for the child I am hoping 
better things.” 

That was in the summer. The following win- 
ter Florio was a regular attendant at the school, 
and made rapid progress in every way. Marion 
had undertaken to teach music as a specialty to 
the most gifted of the children, Florio among the 
number; and she hoped to make a true musician 
of the boy. 

It was a hard winter; many previous ones had 
been hard, but in this one a culminating point 
was reached. 

Despite the generosity of the philanthropic, 
and the earnest efforts of the city missioners, the 
low ebb of business and the general depression in 
consequence, caused additional suffering. Mur- 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


201 


murs arose among the trades-people, and strikes 
were threatening everywhere. What was a real 
cause for grievance to the workers, became an 
excuse for the discontented idlers. 

Marion heard much, and thought much, as 
she went back and forth to her work, and saw 
men standing sullenly on the street corners. 
They knew and respected her as one who loved 
“the little ’uns,” but an anxious look haunted 
her face as she realized her powerlessness to save 
even the children from the result of lawlessness. 

Claude Wilton was in the thick of the fight. 
At such a time his tremendous physical powers 
stood him in good stead; and his sympathy for 
the poor, his pity for the deluded, his influence 
with both employer and employees, made him 
respected by all classes. Day after day he might 
be found reasoning with the leaders of the Unions, 
or striving to alleviate some special case of suffer- 
ing which came to his notice. While the people 
of the slums loved him, they also feared his stern 
sense of justice, his reverence for the laws. 

Coming down the street one morning, early, 
he found himself launched into the midst of a 
gathering mob, who were beyond all reasoning. 


202 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


The contagion spread wildly, women and children 
joining the ranks, and proceeding boldly into the 
leading thoroughfares. As he fought his way 
along, he saw Marion on the opposite side of the 
street, with Florio beside her. 

Her face was very pale, but she kept her 
ground bravely, and the crowd did not molest 
her. She was talking earnestly to Florio, who 
stood near by, his wild Italian blood on fire. He 
wanted to follow his father; but his love for his 
benefactress would not let him leave her in dan- 
ger. He might have been a knight-errant of 
maturer years, so boldly he stood beside her, his 
dark eyes flashing as the crowd surged on its 
resistless course. 

Suddenly a sound of firing was heard; the mil- 
itia was bearing down upon the insurgents, and 
the mob was stopped in its course and turned 
backward. Claude saw the danger, and leaping 
forward, made his way by sheer force to Marion’s 
side, and drew her to a sheltered corner. One 
arm kept her by his side, the other pushed away 
the maddened and now terrified populace. It was 
over in a few minutes, and Marion, trembling 
visibly from the sudden horror of the scene, found 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


203 


herself almost alone with her protector in the 
street which had so lately been the scene of 
tumult. But where was Florio ? He had been 
swept along with the crowd. 

It was long since these two had met except as 
busy workers in their respective fields; the old 
sense of comradeship came back amid the dangers 
they encountered together. Silently they walked 
toward Marion’s home, until Claude suddenly 
said in the bright voice she knew so well: 

u Ah, comrade, are you not convinced at last 
that you and I cannot work alone ?” 

And he read the answer in her tell-tale eyes as 
she looked up at him through a mist of tears. 

But she simply said: “Find Florio for me, 
Claude.” 

Two hours later he rang the door bell, and 
Marion, who had been waiting anxiously his. 
return, greeted him with questioning eyes. 
u He is found.” 
u Where ?” 

u At the hospital now. He was badly injured.’* 
u I shall go to him.” 
u Can you bear it ? He calls for you.” 

For answer she simply put on her hat and cloak 


204 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


and followed him into the street. In a short time 
they reached the ward where Florio lay, his poor 
little limbs mangled and his body racked with 
pain; but he knew her instantly, and stretched 
out his hand with a smile beautiful to see, so 
touched was it with mingled love and pain. 

She knelt beside him, silently holding the out- 
stretched hand. No words were needed to tell 
her that he could not live. 

u Florio mio, look to Jesus,” she whispered 
softly. 

“ Say it for me,” he said, between his moans. 
She knew what he meant: 

“ Gentls Jesus, meek and mild, 

Look upon a little child.” 

And then she stopped, for he was dead. Some 
one drew her tenderly from the bedside, and 
together they went out into the dark night. 

Miss Roy sat up to await them. She, too, 
looked pale and worn that night. Indeed for 
some days Marion had noticed a lack of vivacity, 
coupled with an effort to appear at ease before 
Marion. A long interview with Mr. Hallowell 
the previous day had seemed to tire Miss Roy 
greatly. That gentleman was loud in his praises 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


20 & 


of her botanical work recently published, and con- 
sidered it a valuable addition to that branch of 
science. 

“She might rest now,” Miss Roy said, and 
Marion’s devotion, in spite of her grief at Florio's 
death, was very sweet to the weary heart. 

Marion simply said to Claude : “ I cannot yet 
leave my aunt;” and he was content to await the 
coming of a brighter day. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Other sheep I have, which are not of this fold; them 
also I must bring, and they shall hear My voice, and there 
shall be one fold and one shepherd. — Gospel of St. John. 

B UT Miss Roy had something to say on the 
subject of a postponement of the marriage, 
being persuaded that a long engagement would 
be both tedious and unnecessary for all parties 
concerned. 

“Mr. Wilton has waited long enough for this 
happiness, and I wish you to enjoy your young 
married life while you may. Child,” she con- 
tinued sadly, “all my early life was marred by 
one fatal mistake. I loved a man who was bril- 
liant, handsome, and fascinating, but unworthy 
of the affection of a true woman. I would listen 
to no appeals from my friends, calling their kind 
intervention a slander against him. When the 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


207 


blow came, and I found him all, and worse, than 
they had told me, I was heartbroken; my pride 
refused consolation, for the idol of my life had 
fallen, and none could raise it up again. Instead 
of living ennobled by sorrow, I became embittered; 
for years I doubted my most faithful friends; and 
one, the truest of them all, I sent away with 
words of anger I would give my life to recall. 
He never uttered one reproach for the love he 
had lavished upon me while I yielded to the infat- 
uation of another’s worthless avowals; but went 
from me, saying that he would always believe in 
me, and so long as I cared for no one else, he 
would have hope; that he vowe,d never to marry 
any other woman while I lived. 

“I disdained the idea that a man could keep a 
vow like that longer than the passing hour, and 
said I knew he would be taken with the first 
pretty face that came along; for my lack of 
duty was another bitter pill. But he loved me 
for myself alone, as time has shown me; and 
to-day is as ready for my coming as ever in the 
days of my youth. Marion, I have come to trust 
him at last, for he has a record as honorable as 
ever graced the pages of knight-errantry; and I, 


208 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


after years of struggle against conviction, am 
bound to acknowledge that his Christian motives 
have kept his life free from all stain; you under- 
stand now why I hesitate to-day to reward his 
faithful service. I feel unworthy of him whom 
once I spurned. 

“To-morrow is our forty-second birthday — 
your mother’s and mine; no threads of gray are 
yet in my hair, but the heart of youth is gone. 
It w r as crushed by one fatal blow, and never again 
has felt the old joyous thrill; gay I have often 
been since then, the leader of brilliant companies, 
but, under the mask I wore, existed an endless 
sorrow. Time and experience have changed my 
ideals; the heroes now are those that wear the 
spotless robe of virtue, however homely the 
wearer’s face. Your love has done more to soften 
me than any other influence of my life. Oh, 
Marion! you are, indeed, a child of the covenant; 
prize that priceless inheritance above all else. 
My childhood’s home was not a happy one; peace 
never entered its dark portals ; but I draw the veil 
over the errors of the dead. 

“When you came to share my home and heart 
I wished that you should follow in my footsteps. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


209 


Gradually I learned, that, like your mother, you 
possessed a courageous soul beneath that gentle 
exterior, and I watched your struggle with doubt 
and unbelief, as if I, myself, were experiencing 
anew the terror of darkness. If I could have 
prayed, my prayer would have been that you 
might retain your child-like faith in the God who 
was to me unknown, for I knew that other- 
wise your peace was gone forever. Your faith 
triumphed. I have watched you often since, to 
note whether the victory was a lasting one, and I 
have never seen you waver. I am glad beyond 
measure that you have a future before you which 
calls into play the nobler energies of your 
nature. 

“As for me, if James Hallowell will take me 
as I am, groping in the darkness which I have 
myself helped to create, I am determined to try 
to atone in some measure for the past. It is hard, 
hard, for one who has spent twenty years in steel- 
ing her heart against religion, to find its joys in a 
moment; that time of comfort may never come 
to me. Enough if some faint rays of truth 
illumine my later years ; ’tis more than I 
deserve.” 


210 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


At the name of Hallo well, Marion started, and 
amazement was depicted on her countenance. 
She had seen him but once, soon after her arrival 
in Washington, six years ago; and so well had 
her aunt guarded the secret, that the girl had 
given him but a passing thought. Now she 
recalled with pleasure his kindly face and courte- 
ous manners, and rejoiced in her aunt’s deci- 
sion. 

“When will he come, Auntie ? Oh ! I am so 
glad ! Never was there more deserving knight 
than he. It does a woman’s heart good to know 
such constancy exists in this changing world.” 

“He is waiting for a message from me, and that 
message went on its way an hour ago. You see 
now, darling, why I wish you to marry young, 
before your heart grows hard.” 

“Aunt Addie, no one could ever accuse you of 
being hard-hearted or selfish,” Marion stopped 
suddenly, remembering how but a few years since, 
those very traits in her aunt’s character had pained 
her, and threatened to alienate their inner lives. 
Yes, her aunt had changed. Thank God for it. 

And Mr. Hallo well came that evening. Marion 
would have known him anywhere, though his 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


211 


hair and beard had whitened in the few years 
since their first meeting. 

“I do believe you are more excited over your 
aunt’s marriage than your own,” declared Claude 
Wilton one day when Marion had been talking 
eagerly about the affair. 

“It is really more romantic, don’t you think 
so ?” replied the girl archly, her eyes sparkling 
with merriment. 

The following spring the usually quiet house 
on Gates Avenue, Brooklyn, was in a bustle of 
preparation for Marion’s wedding. Guests began 
to arrive early in May, among them Mr. and Mrs. 
Hallowell, of Chicago. 

Of gifts that came to Marion at this time, 
there was one which she valued most of all, for 
the sake of the generous-hearted friend, who, in 
distant lands, remembered her without bitterness. 
It was a star of pearls upon a tiny gold pin, and 
in the center of the pearls glowed a precious 
sapphire that well matched the eyes of the bride- 
elect. Marion showed the gift to Claude, and 
tears glistened in her eyes at the thought of 
Harold’s loneliness. There had been but one 
magnet to draw him home, and now that was 


212 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


removed, he felt “home” and “native” land were 
to him unmeaning words. 

There was another to whom Marion’s heart 
turned at this time; she had not been able to visit 
Olivia since her return, and this she considered 
one of the last duties to be performed before she 
allowed herself to be wholly absorbed in her own 
happy life. 

In the asylum, life moved on more smoothly 
for some of the inmates than it did for many 
burdened hearts in the world without. For Olivia, 
there were no anxious care for the morrow, no re- 
grets for the past, and no fears for the future. 
Hers was simply an existence without the joys or 
griefs of humanity; it was, in fact, a total uncon- 
sciousness of any world but her own room. It 
might seem almost happiness, this absence of 
sensibilities, which is a state sometimes invoked 
by those who suffer and enjoy intensely; yet who, 
no matter with what bitterness he looks on life, 
who would exchange with the imbecile? In one 
instance alone Olivia was to be envied. Mo mat- 
ter how frequently her mind wandered in helpless 
confusion among the mazes of struggling thought, 
there was one knowledge she had never lost, one 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


213 


ray amid the darkness, and that was her faith in 
God. It would have melted any heart to hear 
those usually feverish lips repeat with calm and 
forcible earnestness, “The Lord is my Shepherd, 
I shall not want,” etc. Past understanding are 
the ways of the Lord, yet we know He does pro- 
vide. 

There was one distinctly inherited trait in 
Marion Martyn’s character — a constancy to friend- 
ship once formed, be it that of the great or the 
lowly. A kindness once received was not easily 
forgotten by her. It followed, then, that old 
Bridget came in for a share of her happiness at 
this time. One bright morning found Marion on 
her way to Bridget’s home, in one of the many 
villages dotting the banks of the Passaic river. 
It was a beautiful little town, whose long avenues 
of shade trees had but recently burst into lux- 
uriant foliage. 

Marion, after alighting from the ill-ventilated 
accommodation train, walked lightly along the 
lane leading to Bridget’s house. She was in the 
mood to enjoy those sweet “silences of Nature,” 
of which a writer of our day has so tenderly 
spoken; the fresh, soft air came to her as a breath 


214 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


of another world than the great, busy city whose 
spires gleamed in the distance. 

Her thoughts went back to that first summer 
in Virginia with the Freers; then, like the shifting 
scenes of a panorama, the years rolled backward. 
Once again a tiny child held its earthly father’s 
hand, as the two wandered about the streets of 
quaint Newberg-on-th e-Hudson. Again she was 
playing in the gardens with the Wilton children, 
or tending flowers with Jessica Lynn/ Then came 
the remembrance of that second outward conse- 
cration in the old Brooklyn church; and later, 
those years in Washington which had brought 
the u trial of her faith.” 

She drew a deep breath of thankfulness as she 
realized what life would have meant for her with- 
out a personal God; the memory of that night of 
darkness and doubt was redeemed only by the 
after morning of hope and trust. 

Marion felt that these past experiences were a 
preparation for the life opening before her. She 
had scarcely reached Bridget’s cottage when the 
door opened, and her old nurse hastened to meet 
her. 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


215 


“Ach ! here’s me darlint clrop’t right down on to 
me flower garden from the bright skies ! When 
I woke airly in the mornin’, I felt in me owld 
bones that somethin’ was a goin’ to happen, an’ 
sure it has. What for will you kiss a wrinkled 
cratur’ like me, choild? Sure, an’ its a long time 
since I looked into your swate blue eyes. Come 
in and rest yerself. The owld moither be glad o’ 
a sight o’ my bonny girl.” 

Marion, half laughing, half crying (for some- 
how the tears came easily that day) followed 
Bridget into the house, and soon the two were 
given up to those tender memories which filled 
their hearts with a sense of nearness, which no 
difference of rank or condition could disturb. 

Late that afternoon, Marion returned to the 
city, carrying in her hands clusters of spring 
flowers; and in her heart, the remembrance of 
Bridget’s parting words : 

“ Sure, an’ it’s> Mister Martyn’s own choild yer 
be, to come so far to see yer owld Bridget. God 
bless me darlint.” 

The dear old professor had listened to the per- 
suasions of his former pupil, and had promised to 
play the wedding-march. 


216 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


“ Not Mendelssohn’s, nor Lohengrin’s, but the 
inarch I used to hear you play so often. I love 
the memory of those grand chords!” Marion had 
written. 

“It is the air in the Tannhauser of which 
Mees Martyn speaks, yes, I feel sure of it!” and 
sitting down at his beautiful piano, the dearest 
friend of his life, Professor Schmidt forgot the 
outside world in listening to the melodies his 
fingers brought forth. It was long months since 
he had played that air, and Wretch, who had be- 
come reconciled to his new home, since Miss Roy 
had sent him as a farewell present to her friend, 
Wretch recognized the march. 

“Where’s Marion?” he shouted, flapping his 
wings indignantly. 

“You are a smart bird, after all,” said his 
master, laughing as he rose from the piano and 
lighted his pipe. 

“Ugh!” groaned the parrot, subsiding into 
a meditative state as he watched the curling 
smoke. “Ugh! women never are where they’re 
wanted!” 

“You are right, old fellow,” said the profes- 
sor; and a long silence ensued. 


CONCLUSION. 


Thanksgiving day of the following autumn 
dawned beautifully clear; even the occasional 
gusts of wind that swept the air could not mar 
the crisp brightness of the morning. The Rev. 
Claude Wilton was to conduct the service at the 
Harlem church in the temporary absence of the 
rector. 

The church was appropriately decked with the 
fruits of the fields for the celebration of the festi- 
val of the Church’s Harvest Home. After the 
conclusion of the services, Claude Wilton, ad- 
dressed the people upon the blessings of thanks- 
giving, and his heartfelt words stirred many a 
dull heart that day to generous action. There 
was a note of joy in the ringing tones of his 
voice which touched a responsive chord in Marion’s 


218 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT . 


heart, as she sat quietly drinking in her husband’s 
words, and unconsciously encouraging him with 
her earnest gaze. So many causes for thankful- 
ness! She could never before have rejoiced as 
she did that day, with a peaceful joy that could 
not be disturbed. 

The benediction pronounced, the congregation 
quickly dispersed, some few lingering to greet the 
sweet-faced young woman in the minister’s 
pew. 

At length Marion was left alone, and after a 
moment spent in silent prayer, she arose and went 
to meet her husband, who, coming through the 
vestry room door, had paused to watch the kneel- 
ing figure, with the softly radiant light from the 
eastern window lingering upon it. 

Silently they walked down the aisle, and with 
clasped hands stood beneath the memorial window 
to her father. It was a beautiful church which 
had succeeded the little Mission that had been 
the scene of John Marty n’s early labors, and 
fitting did it seem that the memorial to his faith- 
ful services in the Master’s cause should bear this 
simple inscription: 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


219 


“The Reverend John Martyn, 

Born, Oct. 2, 18 — ; Died, Aug. 10, 18 — . 

IN MEMORIAM. 

“ ‘He being dead, yet speaketh.’” 

Yes, though dead, he had, indeed, spoken; not 
only in the work begun with earnest, patient toil 
in a seemingly barren field, which work had 
increased like the mustard seed into a mighty 
tree — the visible Church of Christ; not only in 
the memory of those who had labored with him, 
and paid this tribute of loving gratitude to his 
noble example; not only in these things did he 
still speak to men. But in the heart of the little 
child, so tenderly loved, and whose infant steps 
he had guided up to God — in her heart, through 
life, had lingered the influence of that love; in 
her very darkest hour (and there had been more 
than one) she remembered always the words he 
had taught her lisping lips to say: “God loves 
you, Marion.” 

It was she who first broke the silence. 

“We will not let any sadness mar this, our 
first Thanksgiving Day together. My heart is 


220 


A CHILD OF THE COVENANT. 


full of joy; I pray only that I may be worthy of my 
father’s love — and yours.” 

In a low tone Claude Wilton repeated the 
words of their favorite poetess: 

“ Beloved, let us love so well, 

Our work shall be the better for our love, 

And still our love the sweeter for our work, 

And both commended for the sake of each, 

By all true workers and true lovers born.’' 


FINIS. 


THREE GOOD NOVELS. 


BISCUITS AND DRIED BEEF. 

A Panacea. 

By L. H. M. 40 cents, net. 

A story dedicated to “ many friends among the 
ranks of the Clergy, who are striving, under ad- 
verse circumstances, to preserve their self-respect.” 

A Layman writes: “If it were not so sadly 
real, it would be very amusing.” 

THE THREE VOCATIONS. 

By Caroline Frances Little. 75 cents, net. 

“ Miss Little has made the experiment to re- 
produce upon American soil what in England, in 
the writings of Charlotte M. Yonge and others, 
has so excellently succeeded — a Church Novel.” 

THE ROYAL WAY. 

Via a Crucis, Via a Luc is. 

By Isabel G. Eaton. 60 cents, net. 

“ It illustrates the power and attractiveness of a 
self-denying spirit, and also that through the way 
of suffering God opens to those who accept it a 
way of light and happiness.” 


SOME AMERICAN CHURCHMEN. 


By Frederick Cook Morehouse. A Series 
of Short Biographical Sketches, with portraits. 
Cloth $1.00, net. 

Sketches of Samuel Seabury, William White, 
John Henry Hobart, Philander Chase, John Henry 
Hopkins, Sr., Jackson Kemper, William Augustus 
Muhlenberg, James Lloyd Breck, James de Koven. 

The following notice is from The Church Times: 

“ The longest biography is that of James de Koven, War- 
den of Racine College, a priest of great piety, whose per- 
sonality made itself felt far and wide through the American 
Church, and a Catholic theologian who was a great power 
in her councils. The volume is illustrated with portraits, 
and is written from a thoroughly Catholic standpoint. We 
wish it a wide circulation on both sides of the Atlantic.” — 
Church Times (London). 


A LIFE OF SERVICE, 

or, Woman’s Work in the Church. 

By Sara Morrill. Bound in two shades 
cloth. Price, $1.00, net. 

It consists of a series of Letters on Church work, 
covering every phase of woman’s work for the 
Master. A valuable help to new beginners, and an 
excellent assistant in its suggestiveness to old 
workers in the Church. 


2jrd Thousand. 

REASONS FOR BEING A CHURCHMAN. 


Addressed to English-speaking Christians of 
Every Name. By the Rev. Arthur Wylde 
Little, M. A. Cloth bound, net, $1.00. 
Paper covers, 50 cents. 

The Acknowledged standard book in the Angli- 
can Communion. 


2d Thousand. 

THE CHURCH IN THE PRAYER BOOK. 

A Layman’s Review of Worship. 

By Edward Lowe Temple, M. A. With a 
Commendatory Preface by the Rev. Samuel 
Hart, D. D., Secretary of the House of 
Bishops. Price, net, $1.25. By mail, $ 1 . 35 . 

The most complete review of the Prayer Book 
ever Published. It should be used as a Text Book 
for advanced classes in every parish, and read 
generally throughout the American Church. It 
is the only book to give a comprehensive idea of 
every page of the Prayer book. 


The volumes named in the preceding pages, 
all published by 

The Young Churchman Company, 

MILWAUKEE, WIS. 




































































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